Daddy's Girl
by MJDAndrea
Summary: This is a story that I wrote years ago that I always meant to get back to but never did. It's about interpersonal relationships, money, drugs, profanity, trust, and people killing each other. I hope you enjoy it.


**Daddy's Girl**

 **Author Note:** About four or five years ago I was laid-up with some medical issues and one of my friends suggested that I try writing to get my mind off things. We played Shadowrun as kids – though I hadn't touched a book in years – and he thought it would be a good setting to experiment with. He even bought me the 5th edition book – though in retrospect it might just have been to shut me up and end my complaining. I eventually forgot about the story; I always intended to come back to it, but it got lost in the shuffle. Recently, I came across the story and was urged to submit it to a fan-fiction site to gauge people's reactions to it. And that's what I'm doing. So, please keep in mind that the story was written some time ago and some timeline-related points may no longer be accurate. - Mike

 **Chapter 1**

Mercy leaned back into the darkened doorway in a futile attempt to keep dry. The smog index had been astronomically high the last few weeks, which resulted in a greater than usual acidity to the rain. Even on a good day, exposure to Seattle's constant drizzle meant red and itchy skin after a few minutes outside. On a night with steady rain, like tonight; a person might receive what looked and felt similar to light sunburn. Add in the damage caustic water could do to electronics, and it was more than enough reason to keep her huddled deep inside the doorway.

To be on the safe side, she stopped en route and purchased a polyvinyl, poncho-style rain slicker from a vending machine outside a subway terminal. It definitely was not the fashion statement she preferred to make; the faux-Indian totem pole design was in poor taste and it smelled like an old inner tube. Appearance and luxury aside, however; it served its purpose. The combination of the poncho and the recessed doorway did a passable job of keeping her dry – comfort and style notwithstanding.

The line for the club across the street continued to grow; it already extended to the corner of the block and grew longer by the minute. Out of boredom, Mercy scanned those assembled for the third time in as many minutes. Her left eye panned over everyone in the queue, zooming in to snap candid still-frame images and out again to get wide-angle video. She could practically feel the lenses in her left cybereye dilate and contract as she toyed with various perspectives.

Since none of the new additions across street seemed to be out of place, she relaxed her eye and zoomed out. Returning to normal vision depth, she activated the filter for her low-light compensation. The cramped little doorway was digitally rendered in crisp, high-definition green and black tint.

Humming under her breath, she fished the crumpled pack of cigarettes out from her hip pocket and expertly flipped the last one out of the open corner. Crushing the empty pack, she tossed it idly into the street to mingle with all the other garbage. Using the glossy black metal of her left hand to shield the cigarette in her lips from the wind, Mercy sparked it to life; grinning as the world went pitch black for a moment.

Flare compensators in her eye interrupted her vision for a few microseconds, a relatively short amount of time, but long enough to avoid blindness or a serious shock to the synthetic retina. Had the situation continued for longer than a quarter second, the microcomputers would have erected partial gradient screens to filter the excess light. The system allowed her to see without impediment, regardless of the situation. Microcomputers could react in fractions of a millisecond, thereby insuring that she was never at a tactical disadvantage.

Taking a long drag, she leaned back against the cold, slimy surface of the old wooden door.

Across the street, activity began picking-up as the club's sound system thumped and wailed to life. The neon lights flickered and bathed the street in their gaudy, emerald glow. At the same time, information pertinent to the club barraged Mercy's HUD with drink lists, sponsors and sponsored products and services, names of the bartenders and their specialties, the manager's name, a map with all the important features highlighted, business hours, et al. The lists and map appeared superimposed over her vision in eye-catching colors. At the same time, a massive augmented reality 'Entrance' sign appeared hovering above the real world door.

Mercy felt an unexpected surge in excitement, a general sense of exuberance and a drastic drop in her inhibitions. She wanted to dance and drink. She needed to mingle and meet someone. Comfort, arousal and electric vitality worked in concert to drive her to the dance floor.

Shaking her head and slapping herself in the face, Mercy checked the settings on her implanted commlink's reality buffer. The club broadcast hot-sim along with its AR displays. Even though it was at low levels, it affected her ability to concentrate. Increasing the voltage to the buffers weeded-out the simsense signals, but the damage was done; Mercy's system bubbled with adrenaline and endorphins.

Drawing hard on the cigarette, she removed herself from the club's network and relaxed as all the superfluous information vanished from her vision.

"What? Not looking forward to a night spent mingling with the teeming masses?"

Silhouette's voice transmitted via the sub-dermal speakers implanted into the bone behind Mercy's eardrum. This meant that in spite of the pounding music he was perfectly audible. At the same time, his personal icon appeared in the corner of her vision as an anthropomorphic shadow composed wholly of rapidly-swirling, black geometric shapes constantly in a state of flux.

"You know I can't stand this shit, Sil," Mercy responded, flicking the dead butt into the street. "Squattin' in the rain for hours; watching rich little corp-brats itching to blow through daddy's cred just so they can say they got into the newest club on the block."

"Beats being a garbage man."

"This from the guy who's sittin' on his ass at home. Try getting dirty more'n once in a blue moon; maybe being a garbage man won't seem like such a bad gig," Mercy said bitterly.

"Hey, we can switch it up anytime you want…just don't expect to be getting paid anytime soon. Suits're notoriously unsympathetic when you tell them their run fell flat 'cause your cover-man got beat-up by a girl scout." Silhouette's icon blasted apart and swirled across Mercy's vision like a charcoal snowstorm, only to reform lying flat on its back with a black funerary flower clutched in its hands.

Mercy chuckled to herself and reached for another cigarette. She fumbled for a moment before realizing that her last one was in fact, her last one.

"Goddammit," she grumbled under her breath to no one in particular.

"Ten minute warning. Limo just passed the corner of 97th and Welles moving at 93 kp/h. Should arrive at approximately 10:07, assuming current traffic keeps up." The digitized version of Pangolin's throaty soprano resonated in Mercy's ears via that same speakers Silhouette used.

"Thanks, Pango. Everybody ready?" Mercy asked.

A topographical map of the surrounding area appeared in Mercy's view. Four blue dots located at strategic positions represented her and the rest of the team; the large orange dot located some distance away was the conjoined marker for Pangolin and her van. And moving towards her on one of the larger streets was the target's yellow arrow as it approached the club.

Mercy minimized the window containing the street map to the tray in the corner of her heads-up display. A schematic representing a detailed layout of the club's interior took its place. The difference between her map and the one broadcast as part of the club's network was obvious.

Every piece of security and-or surveillance equipment glowed bright red, as did the hoverbox icons encoded with the technical schematics needed to avoid or bypass them. Each locked door had an augmented reality overlay denoting its combination or access code, and blinking yellow dots relayed the club's security personnel locations in real-time. Two green 'X's' scuttling through the building represented Pangolin's spy drones, which they secreted into the club via the air filtration system prior to opening.

"Last minute update time," Silhouette informed them. "Payroll shows that the five bouncers working tonight, all but one is a base humie. Insurance files say that those four are probably unmodified – so, no real worry there. The fifth is a troll who's had some heavy-duty cyberization and bio-replacement surgeries. And he's been in for some recent modification and maintenance, too. Personnel records say that they hired the guy after serious hospitalization…looks like he was a prizefighter of some kind. Probably semi-pro, cage-type stuff. Tag shows him as the doorman on the side you're on, Mercy. So, um, you know…have fun." Silhouette's icon inflated to twice its normal size and assumed a boxer's stance.

"These guys armed?"

"One sec…public registry says the owner, Ryan Marcell, has a conceal-carry license. There's nothing listed for the building, business, address, or the club name," Silhouette rattled off.

"Good. Nice work, Sil," Mercy said.

"I aim to pl─"

"Sorry Sil. Seven minutes," Pangolin interrupted, "The target vehicle has decreased speed to 86 kp/h; increasing ETA by approximately forty-three seconds assuming current traffic trends."

"Jester, Razor'?"

"We're here," Razorback's gravelly voice rasped in response; "A block east on VanDewar; motor's runnin'. When you get a visual, gimme a shout and we're rollin'."

"Caly, you in position?" Mercy asked.

A soft grunt came through the sub-audible channel in Mercy's ear. Looking at the club's roof, she saw a dark shape drop from the second floor air-conditioner tower then disappear into the darkness. "Yeah, but I still don't know why I'm the one up here getting filthy."

Mercy shrugged, knowing that Calypso could see her from her vantage point across the street. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Last time I answer a call from you people, I swear," Calypso huffed.

"You say that every time," Silhouette heckled.

"Okay, well…just, shut up!"

"Niiiice comeback," he said sarcastically.

The door to club Europa opened and a massive troll ducked through. Dressed in an expertly tailored black suit, he took-up a position between the ever-growing line of impatient revelers and the entrance.

Mercy gave him a quick scan, pausing long enough for the analysis software in her eye to get an accurate estimate. Two numbers popped-up superimposed over the world and floating above the troll's head: 2.77 meters and 338 kilograms – not including any extra weight from the cyberized parts that Silhouette mentioned.

Whistling through her teeth, Mercy beamed the info out to the rest of the team along with an accompanying image.

"Great," Razorback groaned unenthusiastically. "Were you ever able ta figure out what he's got under the hood, Sil?"

"Nah, there's no record," Silhoutted replied. "Most likely it's all meat-market 'wares; I don't wanna go poking around just yet on the off chance I break somethin' and he gets wise. I can look if you want?"

"It's not criti—"

"Just give me a minute." Calypso's forced whisper cut across the audible channel and interrupted Razorback mid-sentence.

"Okay." Mercy zoomed in and triggered her image enhancers to get a good look at the troll. It was obvious that Silhouette's guess concerning his previous line of work was correct – or at least as close to it as was necessary for their purposes.

The troll had what was commonly referred to as 'Oni' style horns, meaning that they came out not from the typical spots on the temples or crown but instead from much closer to the forehead. Both horns were capped with a decorative metal sleeve, and both were synthetic – probably replacements for those broken off while brawling. Likewise, both his lower jaw tusks were replaced with what looked like stainless steel, and his nose had the earmarks of being broken more than a few times.

"Both arms are cybered. His rib-cage, most of his skull, and both knees are, too. His whole spine's laced-up with wire-work, and so are his legs," Calypso whispered in a hushed voice tinged with agitation. "On top of that, some of his internals have been replaced; I can't tell if they're augs or just swap-outs. This guy's aura is pretty messed up; it looks all scarred, like it's been damaged or something. Gives me the shivers. He probably spends a lot of time in some serious pain and he looks pretty surly right now."

"Always fun," Silhouette deadpanned. "You want me to take a crack at 'im? If he's that tooled-up, I—"

"No, leave it be," Razorback insisted. "You were right not to go pokin' around. If it needs takin' care of, Mercy'll do it."

"My condolences, señor troll…"

"Shut up, Sil. Ok, one more time before we get into the shit," Mercy paused long enough to get everyone's attention and then continued, "The limo's coming from the north and's going to stop right in front of the door; there's no way this douche is gonna get out and wait in line. Stopping right in front of the entrance puts the car in a perfect crossfire with me 'nd Caly. Once he gets out of the car – hopefully with the girl in-tow – we take out the tires.

"Now, the personality profile Sil was able to dig up paints this guy as a real chicken-shit, so he'll probably grab the girl and make for the door the second he thinks he's in trouble. Which is when Razor' and Jester'll swoop in a snag her and be out again under cover fire. Me and Caly'll get a quick pick-up by Pango and we'll be out before anyone knows what's what.

"If, by some slim chance, he makes it inside and he's still got a hold of the girl, Jester and Razor'll go in first while we cover the exits. Either way; once we've got her under wraps, everyone bug out fast-like and rendezvous with Hightower."

"Nifty; I'm gonna ride shotgun. Get ready hot stuff!" Silhouette's voice took on a playful tone and Mercy's vision flickered momentarily. "Ok, signal patched through and clear – everyone got the feed?"

Mercy blinked a couple times out of reflex as the rest of the team responded in the affirmative. It was a little unnerving for her, knowing that Silhouette had basically hijacked and duplicated the feed from her eye and routed it to everyone else. She trusted him, but that never made it any less creepy having someone hitching a virtual ride inside her head.

"Thirty seconds, Mercy," Pangolin announced.

Mercy stripped out of the poncho and tossed it in the street. Reaching behind her, she grabbed the strap of the M23 assault rifle she obscured within her shadow. She removed the plastic shrink wrap from the muzzle and ejector slide and shouldered the weapon. The moment her mechanical hand touched the grip, the biometric ID software unlocked the safety and chambered the first round. At the same time, the smart-gun system interlinked her vision with the rifle's scope.

"Here they come! They just turned and they'll be in front of the club any second," Calypso whispered over the audible channel. Her voice came across a bit distorted due to her use of external throat microphone.

Mercy watched through the scope as the car advanced toward the club. With the scope's advanced optics it was easy to read the limousine's license plate and get a visual on the driver's face. The facial recognition software loaded into her left eye blinked, requesting attention as a picture of the driver's gridmapped face appeared alongside a toolbar. The program measured and contour-mapped the driver's facial features then cross-checked them with the UCAS-ODB.

"I've got nothin' on the driver," Mercy informed the team via their encrypted group channel.

"He's prob'bly just some schlub payin' his bills," Razorback said dismissively. "Ignore 'im."

"Famous last words of a man shot in the back by some schlub he ignored." Everyone on the channel – with the usual exemption of Jester – chuckled, knowing there to be a good dose of truth in what Mercy said.

Razorback exhaled sharply; "You're prob'ly right."

"We're on," Calypso interjected; "Car's in the lot."

Mercy leaned back as deep as possible into the shadows provided by the doorway. From within the cover of darkness she watched as the car pulled alongside the line of impatient clubbers. The doorman made a dismissive 'shoo' gesture with his hand and marched the line back a few paces in order to block-off the entrance for the newcomers. The limo driver got out, and after smoothing his clothes and donning a black cap, walked back along the length of the car to open the rear door for the occupants.

"ETA twenty seconds, Mercy," Pangolin said.

"Okay, Razor' get rolling," Mercy instructed. "Caly, as soon as she's out, start your cut-off fire."

"Okay."

The chauffeur opened the limousine's door and a person's head and upper back appeared in Mercy's optic reticle.

Numerous measurements scrolled alongside the well-dressed man's image: distance, wind shear, disparity of angle, bullet-drop, humidity and dozens of additional minuscule measurements that comprised the equation of a perfect shot. Outlined in orange, the target had two red reticles superimposed over his image, one over his head and the second over his heart. Offset from each of the reticules was a smaller sub-reticle showing true-aim locations with real-time adjusted calculations.

Without pausing, the target made his way to the door; he walked through as the doorman held it, stepped inside, and disappeared from sight.

Mercy watched the limo as the driver shut the rear door, shook off the rain, and then moseyed back to his spot behind the wheel. The limo started to pull away from the curb, but had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting Razorback and Jester as they came screaming around the corner into the parking lot.

"Keep going; she wasn't in the limo!" Mercy hissed. "Circle 'round and stash the car 'til I can figure this shit out!"

The nondescript gray sedan squealed through the parking lot and rocketed out the other side onto the street. A large fan-tail of water sprayed over the curb and drenched the crowd. Mercy wedged herself into the doorway as the entire line looked in her general direction. She had just enough time to see the expression on Razorback's face as he whipped through the lot. It was not the face of a happy ork.

"Mercy, what the hell is going on?" Calypso stood on the first floor roof across the street; shoulders hunched, arms out at an angle chest-high, and palms supine in a questioning pose.

"I don't know; everything we saw said she'd be here tonight! She's his big ticket item; he shouldn't've even let her out of his sight."

"I'm looking, Mercy; just gimme a little bit of time and I'll find her for ya. I'm spring-boarding off of the local grid to crack his 'link and see how it scans." Silhouette's voice sounded detached and a little tinny, indicative of his full immersion in virtual reality.

"Just stashed the car inna lot a couple'a blocks away, and we're comin' in on foot. I think we're gonna slide into the back of the line. It loops 'round the building and I'm thinkin' we should be able to blend in without too much trouble. If she ain't in there, then worst case all we've done is wasted a coupla' minutes, but if she's there, then we'll see if we can't unfuck this," Razorback grumbled. "By the time I have to pay my cover, somebody'd better know what the hell's goin' on and where our pick-up is."

The line across the street began moving. People continued to arrive, and cars started backing-up onto the street, but the doorman was systematically winnowing-down the queue. It seemed as if everyone was allowed in with a cursory visual search and quick onceover with a scanning wand. Considering that most of the people in line wore the bare minimum amount of clothing necessary to avoid arrest for indecent exposure, the process took seconds.

"I've got her," Silhouette announced. "Security cameras show her laid-out inside the manager's office. Gimme two-sec's and I'll have a mobius feed up-n-running. Can you move your roach in there, please, Pango?"

"Null sheen; thirty seconds," Pangolin responded.

"Then the plan don't really change too awful much, right?" Razorback asked. "Jester and I'll go get 'er and you two'll work our backs so we have a way out."

"Roger." Mercy affirmed Razorback's analysis of the situation while subconsciously patting her pockets for another package of cigarettes.

"This should be interesting to watch," Silhouette chuckled.

"What will?"

"I wanna see Razor' get past the door. Not only is he far from fashionable this evening; he's a top-heavy decade older than everyone else tryin' to get in." Silhouette's icon bent in half and produced a cane on which to lean.

Razorback's sole response was a drawn-out, exasperated sigh.

A streaming feed popped-up in the top left of Mercy's vision. For the first quarter-second it was grainy and pixilated, but continuously smoothed-out to reveal the interior of an office. The layout inside was pretty standard: desk cluttered with miscellanies, water cooler, a couple chairs, mini-fridge, meal paste extruder, combination trideo projector and terminal, 2D vid screen on the wall opposite of the desk and a long, synth-leather couch.

A young woman lie crumpled on the couch in an undignified heap. Dressed in skin-tight black pants, a see-through white top and crowned with a mane of greasy blonde hair plastered to her head; she matched their target's general description. The drone's camera was in a position to only show her back, however; and it was difficult to make a positive identification without seeing her face.

"Pango, move it around so we can get a good shot of her face," Mercy instructed.

Mercy's image squiggled as the drone responded to Pangolin's order, scurrying along the wall to get a better vantage point from which to broadcast.

"Yeah, that's her; Gracja Nowiki."

"Hey, she's not movin' much. Is she even alive?"

"Drek…that's all we need."

"Zoom in so we can see if she's still breathing, please?" Mercy requested. The picture widened as the drone's camera focused on her to the exclusion of everything else in the room. Mercy expanded the windowed feed until it occupied the majority of her vision, but it remained unclear whether or not the girl in the video was breathing. "I can't tell if she's breathing…Sonuvabitch!"

"No, its fine, Mercy; she's fine," Calypso assured her. "She's okay; her breathing is just very, very, shallow. Look at that round bruise on her neck, right below her ear and behind the jaw."

Mercy closed her right eye to single out the video image from the drone. With an instantaneous mental command, she overlaid a three dimensional grid on top of the video feed and isolated the sector surrounding the neck. That portion of the image expanded until it consumed her entire field of vision; and there, on the side of her neck, was a perfectly-circular bruise .75 centimeters in diameter.

"I think she's using a PA injector to shoot-up; probably the new heroin derivative that's been around lately. Hard-core opiates suppress breathing," Calypso explained.

"Is that that 'White Wyrm' everyone's been talking about the last couple weeks?" Silhouette asked. "I've heard a lot of bad things about that stuff."

Calypso said, "Yeah, could be."

Mercy was glad that Razorback had been able to convince Calypso to accompany them on such short notice. Both she and Jester worked free-lance; signing-on to whichever team might need their unique skill-set for whatever job they had lined-up. Calypso tended to not come cheap, but the combination of her magical gifts and vast library of knowledge pertaining to all things medical – mystic, holistic, and modern – made her worth the price.

Minimizing the feed from the drone, Mercy returned the icon to its original location in her HUD's toolbar. She then turned her attention to the line across the street. Razorback and Jester approached the entrance; with just a dozen or so people between them and the doorman, they would be alone and outside the range of immediate assistance inside the club.

 **Chapter 2**

The sound coming from inside the nightclub was just as much a physical force as it was music. Razorback felt the bass in his chest and jaw; his teeth rattled and it seemed as if his heart wanted to synchronize its rhythm to match the frenetic beat. Each _thud_ made his breath catch ever-so-slightly in his chest, and also brought back unpleasant memories of prepubescent asthma attacks.

The girl that stood in front of him in line – who was likely still in her teens – swayed and stumbled, frequently lurching toward the street or scraping against the grimy wall with her bare shoulder. Razorback watched as she staggered and stutter-stepped out of time with the music, coming close to falling several times as she balanced precariously on 15 centimeter spiked heels. She wore a skin-tight, lace-up corset that required constant attention to keep from slipping down and exposing her breasts. Below that was a pair of black, boy-short style panties, a garter belt, vinyl knee boots, thigh-high fishnet stockings and nothing else.

Once more she swayed, her pink pigtails trailing wildly. This time though, her ankle rolled and she toppled helplessly towards the pavement.

Rigorously honed and cybernetically enhanced reflexes took over, and Razorback's arm shot out to scoop the girl around the waist before she hit the ground.

Gently placing her back on her feet, he said, "Easy sweetie, you're gonna bust yer head if ya don't watch out."

She blinked up at him with a vapid smile and pupils so large they nearly eclipsed her violet irises. "Thanks!" Giggling, she kissed his neck and bounced back into line – once again coming within a hair's breadth of falling over.

"Triple-X if I had to guess. And it looks like she's rollin' pretty hard, too. Betcha' you coulda had some fun tonight if you weren't on the clock," Silhouette said via the encrypted communications channel.

Razorback → Silhouette: Shut up, Sil

Razorback sent his rejoinder via mentally composed text message; though, he doubted whether anyone except Jester beside him had the ability or wherewithal to overhear him speaking.

Razorback → Silhouette: When'd you highjack my eyes you sneaky little bastard?

"I didn't. I'm using Mercy's; she's across the street watching you, and you know the setup she's got in her peeper. With her eye _I can see your soooooul!_ " Silhouette's voice suffered a vocal modification to emphasize the last part of his statement, making it sound like the barker in front of a haunted house.

Razorback sighed and turned to look at the darkest spot on the opposite side of the street. Though she took her position prior to him being onsite, he was positive Mercy hid there in the doorway; her rifle most-likely trained on the doorman.

"But, now that we're on the subject; I'm going to ride piggyback once you're inside," Silhouette informed him.

"Fine. But do me a favor and quit pesterin' me, will ya? I've only got 'bout three people an' then we're in, and I still gotta figure out what the hell's goin' on," Razorback barked, not bothering with accessing the text function on his commlink.

"I'd be more worried about what you're going to say to the doorman when he asks why you expect to get in dressed like that," Calypso chimed in.

"I'm guessin' we're gonna find out."

The little girl with the pink pigtails was next in line and went in with nothing more than a superficial glance from the doorman – she had nowhere to hide anything illicit or dangerous.

Razorback and the troll doorman stood face to chest, sizing each other up. He regretted having to leave his weapons behind with the car. He was sure it was but the first of many times he would feel that particular regret before the night was over.

The troll might be in a nice suit, but there was no mistaking the body posture he slipped into when Razorback made it to the front of the line. He was immediately overly-aware of his attire: a green T-shirt over a slim, but obvious, Kevlar vest, urban BDU pants, black synth-leather combat boots, and thirty-five years' worth of hard-earned muscle and scars.

The doorman held out his hand, arm extended and palm flat, in a 'stop' gesture. Razorback resisted every practiced, ingrained urge to throw his hands up to block the imagined attack. Even though he restrained himself, he knew that his reactionary twitch and subtle changes in stance put the troll on the defensive.

"I think you and your buddy back there got the wrong idea, pops. This ain't no kind of place for you. You wanna cruise for fresh pussy, go somewhere else and do it." The troll's low-pitched voice rumbled as he leaned in close to Razorback.

"It's still a free country, right? We're not lookin' for women or nothin' – though there's nothin' wrong with that if we were. We just mean to meet a friend here's all." Razorback inched a little closer to the troll and felt Jester do the same. "Our cred's as good as anybody's, right?"

"Listen, o _mae_ ; I don't think you're catching my meaning here. This ain't your kind of place; now, I think you two needs to pack it up and move on."

The whip-thin young man in line behind Jester shouted, "Hey, come-the-frak on, man!" over the din of the club's speakers.

"You're starting to piss me off, pal." The troll took a dramatically exaggerated step forward and into Razorback's personal space.

"Fine, I get it. Hows about, say, a hundred for me and my buddy and we'll go find a nice corner to wait for our friend. No fuss, no bother. Hmm?"

The doorman furrowed his brow and looked Razorback right in the eye, stooping significantly to do so. "Don't make me sorry I let you slide, asshole. You start any shit in there; you so much's spill a drink on your way to the pisser, and I'll stuff him up yer ass and toss ya both in the gutter!"

Wordlessly, Razorback picked up the doorman's commlink and wirelessly transferred the money into his public account. Apparently satisfied with the transaction, the doorman grunted and motioned toward the door with a jerk of his head.

Inside the club was an explosion of color and sound. Fierce-hued strobe lights coexisted with augmented reality displays to meld into a scene of sensory madness. The interior structure of the club brought to mind an inverted pyramid. Eight tiers of tables, booths, bars, and screened-off private rooms descended into a 10-meter by 10-meter-square dance floor which was greater than 15 meters below street level. Suspended high above all of it were two-dozen cages connected by catwalks and filled with wildly-gyrating dancers.

"Lookit this place," Razorback shouted over the collective noise of the rapidly-filling club and its deafening sound system. "No wonder kids're so damned goofy nowadays."

Razorback opened the menu for his cyberears and manually reduced the audio input by fifty percent. He then opened his implanted commlink's contact file and found Jester; selecting the audio sample he had on record, he transmitted it to his cyberears. Finally, he instructed the filtering software to render Jester's voice overtop the club's sound system.

Jester nudged him in the ribs; "Move."

Realizing that he blocked the entryway, Razorback descended the stairs down into the club.

Getting down to business, he weeded-out the club's projected AR displays and replaced them with Silhouette's doctored map. Expanding and overlaying it onto his normal vision created a HUD that merged seamlessly with the real world.

Clockwise from his position, and midway around the upper level, a door stood cordoned-off from the general public. Silhouette's overlay indicated that it was one of the few possible ways into the 'Employees Only' area, which included the maintenance rooms, liquor storage, security office, electrical control, water and sewage access – and most importantly – the business offices.

"This way," Razorback said.

The crowds were quickly becoming thick with sweaty bodies. Tables and booths started to fill, and the dance floor was fast-becoming packed. Among the pockets of clustered groups, hookers and dealers plied their respective trades – sometimes in concert with each other. Bouncers wended their way through clubbers like sharks parting schools of witless fish while waitresses dodged through a forest of elbows and knees.

Each individual tier was about 3 meters wide. Two-thirds of the available space was taken up by the tables and stools, all of which were solidly bolted to the concrete below. That left a narrow band of navigable space for people to move through – and it had to be shared by the wait staff, bouncers, inebriated clubbers, and now Razorback and Jester as well.

"Head's up, guys," Silhouette said, grabbing Razorback's attention. "del'Piaz is in there with our girl; looks like he's tryin' to wake her up or something."

"Beam it through," Razorback instructed.

"One sec; I'm trying to get filtered sound from Pango's drone. Club's speakers are a pain in my butt," Silhouette griped.

Razorback moved the windowed feed from the roach drone into his left eye's field of vision. From there he was able to watch events unfold without it distracting his focus from the real world right in front of him.

The scene from inside the office had changed significantly since the last time he'd bothered to check.

"—ck are you doing, you stupid bitch?!"

Squatting beside to the couch was the man they saw getting out of the limousine. He was Latino, with dark skin and eyes. A neatly-trimmed beard framed a thin and angular face that was currently twisted into an angry snarl. The white suit coat he wore when entering the club was draped over the desk; underneath, he had on a dark green dress shirt and a wealth of expensive jewelry. And tucked into the waistband of his pants, against the small of his back, was the visible butt of a small handgun.

With his hair back and his jacket removed, the crossed pistols tattoo on the side of his neck was visible – unmistakably identifying him as Gabriel del'Piaz.

He managed to prop the semi-conscious girl up against the arm of the couch with his left hand, and slapped her, back and forth, with his right. She shuddered and moaned from each impact, her eyes fluttering open from the pain. Thick streams of mascara-blackened tears stained her cheeks; both her nose and lips dribbled blood. Razorback saw several five-fingered welts beginning to rise all over the side of her face.

"Get up!" del'Piaz stood over her, one hand wrapped in her hair and the other striking the side of her face, "Get up! I told you what would happen if I caught you doing that shit again, didn't I?"

"Mmhmmpff." A thin, flimsy bubble of bloody saliva popped out the corner of her mouth as she tried to respond.

"Stupid fucking whore!" Again he slapped her. However, due to her semi-conscious nodding, he struck her not in the face, but across the left temple and ear. "What good are you now?"

Razorback minimized the window and moved it into the ARO tray at the bottom of his HUD.

After laboriously wending their way through the suffocating press of the crowd, they stood a few meters from the door. Two well-built men in 'Security' T-shirts talked casually while guarding it; neither looked in their direction as they approached.

"Left" Jester directed.

"Uh-huh."

Finally noticing the pair, one of the bouncers said, "Club personnel only, fellas. If you're looking for the toile….euugggh!"

As soon as the bouncer opened his mouth, Jester surged forward. Moving at speeds no normal person could ever hope to match, he darted in and struck the unsuspecting man 10 centimeters below the center of his sternum. The security guard heaved as air rushed out of his lungs, and then neatly folded. Gurgling, he sunk to the floor gasping for breath.

The brief moment it took for the standing bouncer to see his partner collapse, and then for the information to register, was enough for Razorback to cover the distance between them. With two quick strides he closed the gap and grabbed the shocked man's throat, locking it in an airless death-grip. Three quick left-handed strikes against his opponent's exposed temple rendered him unconscious.

The security door _beeped_ and slid open as the second bouncer hit the floor.

A tiny cartoon ¥ sign floated across Razorback's vision. "Remember, it's customary to tip your doorman."

"I wouldn't be holdin' my breath if I was you, Sil," Razorback told him; "but, good work on the door."

"Are you kidding?" Silhouette asked, sounding indignant. "I've jimmied vending machines with better firewalls than the security system here."

Jester elbowed Razorback as he walked past, dragging the incapacitated bouncer by the heel.

Razorback nodded.

Not for the first time, Razorback marveled at the Croatian expatriate. At 165 centimeters in height and weighing approximately 85 kilograms, he was easy to overlook. His bland, almost neutral, demeanor made that all the easier. On top of that, Jester hardly ever spoke; if he did speak, it was usually in monosyllabic imperatives. Taken at face value, the small man was almost invisible when compared to the average sprawler.

Snapping back from his momentary musings, Razorback grabbed the unconscious man at his feet and, right behind Jester, dragged him into the hallway beyond the security door. Abruptly dumping the unconscious man onto the concrete floor, Razorback quickly set to tearing off strips of his shirt to use as ligature.

"Any red flags, Sil?" Razorback asked.

Both men started regaining partial-consciousness and began to flail ineffectually, which prompted Razorback to work even faster at completing the complex lovers' knots. After binding their limbs, he used the final remaining sections of cloth to gag each hogtied man.

"Nah, I've got an agent manning the cameras and I'm hooked into the electronics system. Plus, the security radios are all piped through my filter board and I set-up a dummy router to delay any external communications so I can doctor 'em," Silhouette reported smugly.

"Oh, okay."

Inside the door, a short hallway extended 2.5 meters before it branched into a 'T' intersection. Blinking arrows on his 3D mini-map indicated that the left branch led to a freight elevator that reached all the way to the lowest level. The right branch extended out and hemmed-in the club's entire upper tier. Razorback hefted his tied prisoner and turned right.

The hall they were in was concrete on all sides. Steel tubing used to bundle electrical cables intersected at regular intervals as it ran along the walls and ceiling. Naked light bulbs anchored to the cement ceiling overhead were evenly spaced in three meter increments. And along the exterior walls were a series of stainless-steel doors, some leading to beer coolers and others to cold storage for food.

Pausing to peer around the corner, Razorback dragged the half-conscious man to the nearest cooler and dumped him inside, behind a palette of brown cardboard beer boxes. Jester, wordlessly and without prompting, followed suit.

Razorback peeked out from the cooler, saying, "Somebody remind me to call later tonight an' drop a tip that these two're in here."

"I'm sure someone will find them. One way or another," Silhouette retorted sarcastically. The way he stressed 'One way or another' made it obvious that he alluded to the men dying.

"They'll be fine, it's four or five degrees in there; they're chilling beer not freezing meat," Mercy said.

"Hey, whatever; it's not my problem," Silhouette replied. His icon stiffened and blew apart, shattering. "Besides, it's not as if we have to worry about them stinking up the place; you left them in a morgue."

"Nice, Sil," Calypso said cynically.

Razorback rolled his eyes and groaned.

Exiting, he and Jester set a quick pace. On the their left were the coolers; on the right, doors that lead out into the bars and waitress stations that faced the inside of the club. Ten meters in front of them was the door marked by the Silhouette's blinking AR arrow.

A young man in a 'Staff' T-shirt exited a cooler and lurched past them, his vision obscured by the three cases of beer he was precariously balancing as he walked. Razorback and Jester flattened against the wall to let him pass. Not quite 2 meters behind them he stopped. Bit by bit he rotated towards the wall; he then tried to fumble-open the door to one of the bars using just two fingers of his left hand while still holding the boxes against his chest.

Razorback shrugged, walked over and opened the door.

"Thanks, man."

"Yeah, no problem."

Jester looked over at him holding the door, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Razorback shrugged again and started walking; "What? If he'd a dropped all that, there'd be a mess and we'd be standin' here right inna middle of it."

Jester cocked his head and said nothing.

Silhouette laughed as he said, "Besides, this way when botch this gig and have to get a job working at a convenient store, you've already started to make friends with the guy who'll probably be your boss."

"Funny, Sil."

"Both of you two shut-up and get this over with so I can get in out of the goddamned rain!" Mercy snarled.

Razorback winced; "Roger."

"Right. Sorry," Silhouette apologized.

Returning to the task at hand, Razorback approached the door marked with Silhouette's cartoony AR arrow blinking overhead. Expanding the drone's visual feed from the peripheral window tray to his full field of vision, Razorback surveyed the situation inside the office one last time.

Currently, del'Piaz sat behind his desk facing a trideo projection of an unknown man pacing in the center of the room. Due to the drone's position, it was impossible to get a good look at the other man's face; however, it was fairly obvious just from his aggressive gesticulation that he was unhappy about something. Cowering in the corner next to the desk, the girl took large, ragged gulps of air and shook like a scared dog. She adamantly refused to look in the direction of the pacing stranger, and instead, pressed her face against the wall and wept.

The only other objects of note were a pair of cable-linked commlinks and a small automatic pistol – both of which lay on the desk in front of del'Paiz.

Thanks to his cyberears filtering software, Razorback was able to hear the conversation going on inside the office.

"The deal was for a hundred-kay, post-mod. I'm not going to fucking take less'n half that. That's bullshit!" del'Piaz shouted, slamming both hands flat against the desk. The girl flinched and slid along the wall. "You know how much she's worth; I c'n get more'n what you're talking about if I sold her right out on the fucking street!"

"That's not my problem. Certain things have come to light that suggest the aforementioned price would be overcompensation for the inconvenience that will accompany this transaction," the stranger in the trideo projection rebutted.

"What things?! What the hell're you talkin' about?"

"When you were commissioned to acquire and modify this particular unit for augment and resale, there were specific guidelines and specifications that were to be adhered to. It's become obvious that you were either unwilling – or incapable – of upholding those standards. Therefore, the previously agreed-upon price must be renegotiated with these new circumstances taken into account." The stranger pointed towards the wall and the terrified young woman clinging to it.

"What're you talkin' about, I did everything just the way—"

Razorback cut the feed on the conversation's channel, returning his concentration to the task at hand.

"I'll go for her, you get on that piece a' shit," he instructed Jester. Positioning himself in front of the door in preparation for having to kick it in, Razorback added, "Remember, he's got that nine-milly."

Jester nodded.

"One."

"Two."

"Three. Go!"

Razorback's nerves hummed a maniac tune as his adrenaline pump fired off a half-microgram burst. A fleeting wave of euphoria rushed through him like a flash fire, followed by an unnatural surge of energy. One savage kick and the door burst open with a riotous echo. The entire jamb ripped free from the wall and the door itself splintered into kindling. Debris sprayed the room like shrapnel.

As soon as the door was open, he spun back into the hall to allow Jester to rush inside. A violent blur; Jester sprinted into the office, through the startled trideo hologram, vaulted the desk, and kicked the wide-eyed del'Piaz directly in the face. The distinct wet crunch of a broken nose was audible even over the shouts and screams.

Razorback marched to the desk, picked up the pistol, turned and fired twice into the terminal on the far wall. It died in a splash of shattered plastic and a pop of sparks. The trideo projection flickered and vanished.

The young girl – stoned and scared senseless – cringed in the corner of the room squealing and sobbing uncontrollably.

"Come on girlie, get it together. We're gonna getcha outta here." Razorback flipped the safety and slid the gun into his pocket. Grabbing her flailing hand, he said, "Yer daddy sent us to get ya."

Her eyes widened considerably as she came to grips with the sudden change in her personal situation.

"My…m-my f-f-father s-sent sent you?" she asked incredulously. Tears and mascara mixed and ran like soot down her cheeks.

"Yes, now let's go!" Razoback growled, pulling her onto her wobbly feet.

On her feet, Gracja Nowiki's tearful look of fear and confusion suddenly metamorphosed into one of pure blind rage. Screaming, she wrenched free of Razorback's grasp, rounded the desk where Jester was in the process of stripping del'Piaz' jewelry, and began mercilessly stomping the man's groin and abdomen with her heels. del'Piaz tried to curl up to protect himself, but Jester kneeling on his throat prevented his escape. All he could do was gurgle and wail under the onslaught.

"Okay, okay, that's enough!" Razorback shouted. Hooking her around the waist, he lifted her up and off of the gibbering wreck of a man lying on the floor.

She continued to kick and fight to be free, all the while spitting and screaming in Polish.

"Let's go!" he barked, hoisting the frenzied girl onto his left shoulder.

Jester nodded, jogging past and out into the hall.

"Don't forget to grab those 'links, Razor'," Silhouette reminded him. "He's got her P-fixed and can flip her on if he's got access."

"If the prick can even move." The venom in Calypso's voice was palpable.

"Serves him right," Mercy opined approvingly.

Calypso sniffed imperiously; "Couldn't agree more."

Razorback sighed, shifted the girl's weight on his shoulder, grabbed the coupled commlinks and rushed for the hall.

 **Chapter 3**

"En route, Mercy. ETA one minute-eleven seconds at eighty three KPH," Pangolin's voice chirped through the group's secure channel.

"Roger."

Mercy shouldered her rifle. For the moment, she kept its muzzle pointed downward and away from the assemblage across the street. In her right eye, a detailed, three-dimensionally topographical map depicted two blue dots moving within the club and toward the exit. Outside, a large orange dot sped on an intercept course with her current position. Simultaneously, high above on the club's roof, another blue dot crept unseen near the edge of the building.

Coordinating what she saw in the flesh with the information provided by Silhouette's AR overlay, Mercy was able to accurately anticipate Razorback and Jester's exact moment of exit.

A red warning light blinked in the corner of Mercy's HUD.

"Craaap!" Silhouette wailed.

"What?"

"Somehow, someone outside the club's network got wind and called the cops. We have Knight drones movin' and SWAT's holding on stand-by," he informed her.

"What happened, I thought you had it locked down? What the hell are you even doing over there?" Calypso demanded. Agitation sharpened her tone even through the throat mic.

Silhouette said, "I dunno! My screen is setup and workin' fine, and nothing unfiltered has broken through the blackout I have running."

"Well, worry about that later. We need to get the hell outta here." Mercy jerked her rifle into position on her shoulder and fired in one fluid motion. A cantaloupe-sized chunk of meat, bone and metal blasted out from the side of the doorman's knee and splattered against the wall. The second bullet smashed into his hip, and the third buried itself in the troll's shoulder.

Howling in pain and clutching his mutilated joints, the hulking troll collapsed onto the sidewalk. The crowd, simultaneously hearing the report of the rifle and witnessing the maiming of the doorman, began to panic en masse.

In the ensuing chaos, Razorback and Jester burst through the doors and out into the street. Between them, on wobbly legs, stumbled their payload.

"Fourteen seconds."

A burst of automatic gunfire from the roof further scattered the assembled club-goers as Pangolin's heavy, low-slung van careened into the lot and alongside the building. The sliding side cargo door and rear entries were already open; and when it skidded to a stop, the front doors came ajar as well. Mercy slung her rifle, plucked her steaming shell casings from the gutter and sprinted across the street. At the same time, Calypso acrobatically summersaulted from the club's roof and onto the van. Razorback and Jester shoehorned their squirming parcel in through the cargo doors and Calypso dropped onto the street. Then she, Jester and Razorback all dove into the already-rolling van.

The second everyone was reasonably secure inside, the van accelerated wildly through the lot and back onto the street.

Mercy placed her rifle on the floor in the space between the two captain's chairs and looked behind her into the rear. Pangolin sat in her usual position toward the back, facing the reinforced steel side of the van. Her body was slack, lifeless, and held in-place by a complicated five-point harness. The dark glasses, drawn-up hooded sweatshirt and limp, rag doll reaction to the bumps and turns in the road only made her seem all the more corpse-like. Only the random and spasmodic twitching of the dwarf's fingers alluded to any hint of life.

A thin, fiber-optic cable stretched out from within the depths of Pangolin's hood, connecting her to the small terminal welded directly to the wall of the van. Situated beneath it were a powerful but compact signal amplifier, redundant power supply, an overfilled toolbox, two collapsed roto-drones, and a pair of milk crates full-to-bursting with all sorts of parts, hoses, belts, nuts, bolts, lenses, and random miscellany.

The only other seat in the rear of the vehicle – besides Pangolin's specially designed one – was a large bucket seat mounted on a swiveling base. Jester deposited a badly-shaken Gracja Nowiki into it and fastened the harness for her.

"Everyone alright?" Mercy asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah."

"Yep, fine. Move over," Razorback grunted as he crab-walked around Pangolin's catatonic form. Squeezing by Jester and the much calmer Gracja, he eased into the vacant driver's seat. "Sil, ya got a twenty on the cops?"

"Yep." Instead of coming through their secure comm channel, his voice came through the van's speakers. "I'm using the Highway Safety Commission's monitoring system to keep tabs on 'em."

"Good. How close 're they?" Mercy asked.

"About 6 blocks, but I don't think they're going to try and stop you on the road. It looks like the call they got was super vague and only reported something about somebody firing a gun inside a nightclub."

"That's an oddly lucky break," Calypso murmured under her breath as she settled in. Sitting knees to chest, she rested her back against the van's armored body and laid her AK carbine on the floor.

"I don't think so. I cherry picked the CSR number from the list of incoming calls over the last fifteen minutes. By cross-referencing them against a list of dispatched responses, I found the source of the call and back-traced it into the 'plex. I stopped once I got there; it takes too long and is too risky to keep digging on the fly once you have to start dealing with the godlings."

Silhouette paused to wait for comments. He continued, more than a little surprised, after none materialized. "Anyways, the 'link belongs to a guy named Francis Lysaker, a local contractor with ties to a couple different outfits. He's mostly a mid-range type guy, nothing really crazy; guns, dope, augs, BTL and such. Pretty much anything he can get his hands on and move with minimal risk."

"A real renaissance man," Calypso interjected wryly.

"Yep," Silhouette agreed; "But it seems he's trying to move up in the world."

"Howzzat?" Razorback grunted. Bent over, he fished under the seat for a magazine he dropped during one of Pangolin's more energetic turns.

"I have a guy who says that lately he's been try to squeeze into the meat-markets." A strangled whimper from their passenger made Silhouette pause. The speakers went silent for a few seconds, the only sound being him clearing his throat in the background. "Sorry."

"Go on, Sil," Mercy said.

"Right. Anyway, a quick scan of Lysaker's 'link showed a bunch of calls from Paitr Byarczyk, a Polish national here on a six week work visa. That guy works for Wach-Tur Industrial Pneumatics, which is a single-A bidding for subsidization by S.K. Both they, and our glorious employer's firm, are neck-and-neck in competition for development of a new excavation exo-suit. Seems S-K is going to pick whichever firm makes the best one for funding and then probably gonna buy 'em out."

"Jesus, Sil; you dug all that up in less than five minutes?" Mercy asked, impressed.

"Well, most of that was available to the general public if you know where to look. Except for the skinny on that one guy, there's really nothing there that's all that hush-hush," he replied sheepishly. "Besides, I feel kinda guilty letting someone squeak through and tip off the Prawns."

Razorback coughed uncomfortably; "Don't worry 'bout that, I think I did it."

"How?" Mercy asked, giving him a dirty look.

"Dirt-bag back at the club was takin' a meeting with a guy when we busted in," he said. "I shot the terminal but he must've gotta good look at what was goin' on."

"That makes sense," Silhouette agreed, sounding considerably relieved. "I don't feel quite so bad now."

"Cops aren't followin' us. Heading for I-5 south to rendezvous at Federated Boeing, private hanger number eleven," Pangolin informed them through the van's speakers.

"FB? Why not SeaTac?" Calypso asked.

"FB's got a crap-load of private hangars and papa's got himself one," Silhouette answered. "Plus, with the number of times you end-up getting scanned at SeaTac, we'd probably all end up with seven different types of cancer."

Calypso chuckled.

"It's about fucking time you assholes got around to showing up. I been sitting out here with my cock in my hand watching this prick pace back and forth for two hours now, and it's getting fucking oooollld." Hightower's rough baritone burst through the speakers.

"Nice," Calypso didn't even attempt to mask the disdain in her voice; "You guys ever think about muzzling that idiot?"

"I got a muzzle for ya right here, witch-bitch." The sneer in Hightower's voice almost dripped through the speakers.

"Aaaanyway…I don't think that that guy wanted to draw too much attention to himself and what he was doing, so he just dropped an _anonymous_ tip to the cops." Silhouette raised his voice, but was unable to snuff-out the hostile exchange escalating between Calypso and Hightower.

 **Chapter 4**

The van disembarked the highway. Shooting past the first two airport exits, Pangolin steered toward a rarely-used service entrance and began navigating the tangle of unlit roads leading to the private hangars. No longer drizzling, the rain came down in earnest, and the van skidded when required to stop at the first of several security gates.

Flanking either side of the sole road leading to the gate were three-meter-high fences topped with coils of mono-edged razor wire. In addition, the roadway itself had built-in tire hooks designed not only to destroy rubber, but to snag wheels and prevent vehicles from escaping. Add in the ubiquity of cameras and aerial drones, and the area more resembled a prison than an airport.

The security checkpoint was more than the typical shed with a mechanical arm attached, too. Composed of steel-reinforced ferrocrete with only a tiny window and a heavy, blast-proof security door; the checkpoint was more akin to a bunker than a guard booth.

A stocky blond in a sensible blue business suit stepped out from the security building and approached the stopped vehicle. The woman pointed a HK-227 submachinegun indirectly at the vehicle, not the passengers. Razorback was happy to see her trigger finger positioned outside the guard, though he did notice that the safety was off.

The van's driver-side window rolled down even before he could reach for the button.

She leaned in toward window and said, "This is a private strip. Reverse and go back the way you come."

"We're here to meet Marcin Nowiki. He's expecting us," Razorback informed the guard. Leaning back, he gestured for her to look at the passenger inside.

Nodding, she spoke into the open air via an unseen microphone device. "Są one tutaj." There was a brief pause as the person on the other end responded through either an unseen earbud or implanted speaker. "Tak."

The sentry motioned forward with her free hand as the gate descended beneath the road and the tire hooks rolled over to allow safe passage. "Hangar four. Pan Nowiki is there waiting."

Razorback managed to say "Thanks" before the window closed.

The van accelerated, passing over fifteen centimeter speed bumps every 20 meters. A second guard station neared; two men, each with both a weapon and a leashed German Shepherd, waved them through unimpeded.

The road split not far beyond the final security gate. Each direction funneled into a wide turnabout that, in-turn, fed into the individual hangars. Pangolin steered left, traveling past six dark lots until pulling onto the short junction that connected the access road to the communal tarmac.

Hangar number eleven loomed ahead, bright and bustling with activity. Like the others that they passed, it was a long, rounded structure twice as wide as it was tall and painted utilitarian beige and white. The heavy steel doors that sealed the hangar were partially-open, spilling harsh fluorescent light out into the night. A trio of late model BMW sedans idled outside the mouth of the hangar while a half-dozen men in suits paced back-and-forth, scanning the area using hand-held halogen lamps. Each man carried weapons similar to the guards at the security gate; two others held the leashes on a pair of vicious-looking German Shepherds.

As the van slowed, one of the gunmen separated from the group and walked briskly towards the waiting cars. Pointing, he fixed an adjacent area with his lamp and waved the van in that direction.

Pangolin accelerated gently and aimed the van towards the indicated area.

"Looks like we're here folks," Razorback said pseudo-cheerfully. "That wasn't so bad."

As the van came to a stop, Gracja escaped her harness and pushed past Jester; she frantically worked the handle on the sliding door and cursed when it failed to open. "Let me out! Dlaczego nie będzie to niech mnie?!"

"Stop that!" Pangolin shouted. Pushing back her hood, she reached out and grabbed Gracja's shaking hand and held it long enough to hear the audible _clunk_ of the power locks. "There, now you can go."

Gracja forced the door open and half-jumped, half-fell out the rear of the van. Jester wisely moved back, crowding against Pangolin in an attempt to avoid flailing elbows and knees.

"Worse'n my sister's friggin' kids," Pangolin muttered to herself.

In a gangling stumble, the young woman ran towards the line of cars. The man with the spotlight reached the waiting vehicle first and held the rear driver's side door open. The distraught young woman tumbled into the back seat in a squealing, sobbing, tangle of arms and legs.

"Aaaand, we have our money boys and girls!" Silhouette's voice broadcast through the van's speakers and his dark, anthropomorphic icon of swirling shapes leapt in the trideo display on the van's dashboard. "Mr. Nowiki has paid in-full, and we also got our extra twenty-five-K for getting Cinderella here before midnight so he could keep his flight clearance."

"Aww, and she didn't even say goodbye," Calypso said snidely as she took the vacant seat behind Mercy. "I think I'll miss her."

"Can we fraggin' go now? Please? I've been sitting here playing with my dick for like three hours and I'm getting sick of pretending to care what these fucking clowns are tryin' to tell me in Polock," Hightower's deep voice boomed as he exited the hangar. "I'm sure whatever they're saying is really fuckin' important, but I'm hungry and bored out of my Goddamned mind."

The van pulled away from the cluster of cars and moved towards the opening mouth of the hangar. Two workmen inside were busy hitching the front wheel of the small plane to a yellow maintenance vehicle in preparations for moving it onto the tarmac. A few of the security detail lowered the collapsible staircase from the body of the jet and went inside – presumedly to insure that it was ready for immediate departure.

Stopping almost nose to nose with the plane, Pangolin spun the van around; the pneumatic pistons fitted to the frame fired and the rear cargo doors opened 180 degrees to allow Hightower to clamber into the back.

The big troll flipped the lower portion of his armored leather duster out from underneath him and sat with his back against the wall of the van. Dropping his customized Benelli shotgun with a hefty _ka-thunk_ , he leaned towards the front where both Mercy and Razorback sat.

Shaking the rainwater out of his collar, Hightower asked, "Can we fucking go now?"

 **Chapter 5**

"Listen, Paul," Hightower rumbled, removing the smoldering cigar butt from between his clenched teeth; "Caly might be a fuckin' pain in my ass – and a mouthy bitch, too – but, I'll be the first horse outta the gate to say that I love having a medic along."

Razorback looked upward as they walked, asking, "So what's the prob—?"

"And God knows I ain't got a fuckin' thing to say crosswise 'gainst Jester. The little prick's about as solid as they come." Hightower's booming voice steamrolled Razorback's question without so much as a pause.

"Then, why the—"

"But it all comes down to finances, don't it?" Hightower asked, waving the smoldering cigar through the air for emphasis.

"Look, I know we've all been—"

"I don't gotta tell you that it's been gettin' tight lately. Christ, tight ain't the fuckin' word for it." Hightower paused mid-stride. Pointing at Razorback with his index and middle fingers – the two that held the cigar – he snorted angrily then said, "What the fuckin' word is, is barren."

"I know there haven't been a lot—" Razorback clenched his teeth as Hightower interrupted him yet again.

"And for once it's nothin' that we did to fuck ourselves all up. There's alotta new blood flowin' into town and the Johnsons're gettin' us on the cheap. The fucked-up thing is: By now a team like ours normally would'a broke into the big time, dropped outta circulation or got themselves killed-off. Since we fall into none of the above, we're in a no-mans-land and we both know we ain't exactly been flooded with job offers lately." Hightower expounded on his views of Seattle's shadowrunning market in, what for him was an eloquent manner.

Razorback paused, carried out a silent three-count in hopes of outmaneuvering any further interruptions, and then spoke. "Look, it's not an issue of no—"

"The thing is, no one wants to pay us for simple things when they can hire some green motherfucker that calls himself 'Deathblade' or some such silly shit. So we don't get any of the easy runs, those all go to the new kids and all the big money jobs go to teams that've already pulled off big money jobs and made themselves a name," Hightower lectured bitterly while starting to walk again. "So here we sit right in the fuckin' middle of Limbo, hoping for something too tough for the kiddies to pull off, but not too big-time to draw the sharks outta deep water and into our pond."

"Listen, 'Towe–Vince, I know it's been rough lately. Trust me; I know," Razorback blurted out, trying to wedge his way into the monologue. "The others don't have it so bad, what with shopping themselves out as contractors. I know Dave's actually been turnin' jobs down lately he's been so busy, but he's got whatcha might call a marketable skill. You and me, we're more of what you'd call tradesmen."

"That's a bullshit dodge and you know it. That ain't gotta Goddamned thing to do with what I'm talkin' about," Hightower snarled.

Razorback sighed; "Well, if you'd let me string a full thought together I might start makin' sense."

" _Pfftt_ , not fuckin' likely."

Razorback shot a clandestine dirty look at the troll. "Thanks. Anyway, what I was gettin' at was just that; you, me, and Rosie, to some extent I guess, ain't got anythin' to fall back on if we get busted up. I can't rig like Gwen, wire-ride like Dave, or, hell, even shoot like Rosie does. So I figure on somethin' like the other night's rush job, us having some extra hands on deck to cover our asses made sense."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. It's just...where the frag did you park?" Hightower asked, looking around.

Razorback stopped. It had been dark three nights ago when forced – due to an unexpected change in plans – to ditch the car in an unmonitored lot. But in daylight the area looked completely different. Warehouses, many derelict or condemned, were the primary structures on each block and each looked similar-enough to one another as to render them all but worthless as landmarks. No street signs remained on what few light poles continued standing; scavengers took all of them for metal, outright stole them, or else vandalized them into illegibility. Not that it would matter had any of them survived; he was in too much of a hurry to pay attention.

"Ping the car's GPS signal," Hightower urged.

"Can't. I flipped the kill switch on the way out last night," Razorback told him.

"Real fuckin' slick," Hightower snarled, kicking savagely at a sodden pile of dumped cardboard. "Some of us have more important shit to do today besides wander around like goddamned off-the-clock pan-handlers!"

"Cut me some slack, wouldya?" Razorback snapped. "Just gimme a minute so I can retrace my steps."

Hightower flicked the dying cigar butt into the street and said, "Fuck me; getting old must be its own special brand of hell. Maybe we should bring you in to get a tune-up on that wet sack a shit you keep stored between your ears."

"It was right nexta two rusted-out dumpsters 'nd across the way from some greazy lookin' local getting' his knob shined by some chipped-out kid," Razorback said softly, more to himself than as a description for the big troll standing beside to him.

"Seriously? That's how you keep track of landmarks?" Hightower asked in disbelief;. "Two dumpsters in a run-down industrial park and some street kid with a mouthful of drifter jizz? You missed your calling, Paul. You should've been a fraggin' tour guide. Maybe the Needle's hiring."

"Ah! It's over there!" Razorback pointed to an adjacent lot, in the corner of which was a pair of dumpsters and a late-model grey sedan.

Hightower grunted loudly and stomped after him.

 **Chapter 6**

"Hand me the impact wrench with a number eight, please," Pangolin requested, holding her hand out from beneath the rear chassis of the van.

Digby retrieved the socket from its place amongst the meticulously organized tools on Pangolin's giant, multi-tiered rolling toolbox. Fitting the socket to the pneumatic gun, he test-fired the fitting with a brief pull of the trigger, making a loud _brrrttt_ noise. "Here, Gwenny."

"Thanks." The wrench, along with Pangolin's hand, disappeared beneath the van.

"How much will the new springs give you?" Digby asked.

Pangolin replied by yelling, "28.6 kilos max optimum weight, three percent absorption ratio and 5.5 percent vertical impact resistance," over the sound of the pneumatic wrench fighting against a stubborn bolt.

Digby nodded in appreciation; "How much did you pay for 'em?"

The wrench went silent and Pangolin said, "Um…I think a hundred and thirty for a set of two."

"That's not bad," told her approvingly.

Pangolin grunted as she fought tooth-and-nail against a heat-bonded screw. "Nope, that's why I bought 'em."

A loud bell sounded throughout the garage, indicating that a vehicle approached the rear of the building.

"You expecting anybody?" Digby asked, setting his beer on the toolbox.

Pangolin said, "Mike, actually."

Digby's eyebrows raised in surprise; "Our Mike?"

"Yep."

Digby grinned; "Good. Little bastard owes me five hundred cred."

Pangolin exhaled sharply; " _Pffft!_ Good luck with that."

"Tell me about it," Digby said, exasperated. "What's the code for the camera feed?"

"One four zero five kilo kilo eight alpha tango three."

Digby scowled at his sister under the van. "Dad'd kick your ass if he knew you were using just a ten-point PIN."

"It's on a twelve hour cycle; it's fine," Pangolin rebutted.

"If you say so. You're a big girl," Digby said, his tone indicating he thought anything but.

"Yup."

"Shit, there's a pawn cruiser pulling up right behind Mike's van," Digby snarled.

"One of ours?" she asked.

"Can't tell, it's outside the camera's sweep radius. You've got to fix that," Digby scolded. "You have a piece handy?"

Pangolin pointed at the toolbox; "Bottom drawer, behind my welding gear."

Digby opened the deepest drawer and felt around behind the pile of goggles, gloves, and masks. Pulling out the old, short-barrel Defiance shotgun from inside the toolbox, he smiled. "I gave you this, didn't I?"

"Yup."

"Is it loaded?" he asked, knowing the answer.

Pangolin snorted indignantly; "Of course!"

Digby checked the ammunition in the breech while asking, "With what?"

"HV-AP Teflon slugs," Pangolin told him, knowing full-well he already checked for himself.

"Good girl."

Digby leaned the shotgun against his stocky shoulder and walked over to the reinforced steel roll-up door. Hitting the big green button caused the electric motor to come alive, and the chain drive lifted the heavy flexsteel door.

"Hey Sam, easy with the heater," Michael said as he bent at the waist to enter under the half-opened door.

Digby asked Michael, "Who's in the squad?"

"It's Jenny and Matt," Michael said, rolling his eyes.

Digby safetied the shotgun and aimed it at the ground; "Dammit, what're they thinking showing-up here without calling?"

"Would you believe she pulled me over on my way here?" Michael asked irately.

Digby nodded; "Actually, yes; yes, I would."

"Do you have my stuff?" Pangolin shouted from under the van.

"Depends," Michael replied.

"On what?" she asked.

Michael laughed; "On whether or not you have anything to drink?"

A greasy hand emerged from beneath the van and pointed toward a blue cooler. "There's beer in the cooler by the toolbox."

"Thanks."

"You have my money, deadbeat?" Digby asked, shoving his brother from behind.

Michael spun on his heel and dug a credstick out of his pocket. Tossing it to Digby, he said, "Yep, I made that plus-some on the comm's Gwenny had me hock."

"Can you not talk about that kind of stuff while we're here, please?" Genevieve requested as she and Matthew ducked in under the half-opened door.

"Maybe if you called people before you just showed-up, we'd be talking about things that didn't offend you, _officer!_ " Pangolin shouted from beneath the van.

"Beer?" Michael offered the new arrivals each a can from the cooler.

Matthew said, "I'll take one, but Jenny's still on duty."

"Then what the hell're you even doing here?" Digby asked.

Genevieve rounded on her brother; "Matt needed a ride and it's a nice day, so I decided to get out of the office for a while. What's wrong with that?"

Michael huffed and rolled his eyes; "Our tax money hard at work."

"When the hell is the last time _you_ paid taxes?" Genevieve shook her head and snatched the unopened can from her brother's hand.

"Speaking of which; if I get another point on my license I'm gonna have to grind out another ID for that van. You didn't actually put it in the system did ya, Jenny?" Michael asked.

Genevieve gave her Michael a swift kick in the shin; "No, I didn't; and I specifically asked you not ten seconds ago to not talk about that kind of stuff while Matt and I are here, didn't I?!"

"Someone help Mike bring in my boxes, I wanna see what I got," Pangolin shouted.

"I will; just hang on. I want find someplace that doesn't have grease on it to set my jacket down," Matthew responded, his coat in one hand and a beer in the other.

"It's a garage, everything has grease on it," Digby told him. "Are you still cranking out those shitty IDs, Mike?"

Michael shrugged; "When I have to, or if I need some extra cash, yeah. Why?"

"Sam, I just asked him not to talk about that stuff and now you are? Come on!" Genevieve shouted, stomping her foot.

"Seriously, we're drinking cans now? You couldn't afford bottles?" Matthew asked, looking at the can as though it was toxic.

A greasy rag flew out from under the van and slapped up against Matthew's leg. "Well, if I'd known you were coming, _your majesty,_ I'd've splurged."

"Matt there's a couple cases up on the catwalk, but they're warm," Digby said, pointing up at the steel walkways high above the garage floor.

Genevieve followed Digby's finger, asking, "Who stores beer up there?"

"Ya know…Gwenny has a guy who could probably help you with an ID," Digby told Michael, ignoring Genevieve's rhetorical question. "A good one, too. Not a hack like you."

"You mean Silhouette? I've heard he's pretty solid." Michael fished another beer out of the cooler for himself. "But he doesn't do hardcopy does he?"

Digby shook his head; "Don't think so."

"Don't use my hook-ups without talking to me about it, you sleaze!" Pangolin yelled. "And go get my stuff!"

Michael kicked his empty beer can under the van and asked Digby, "How much you think he'd charge me?"

"Jesus, I'm standing right here!" Genevieve shouted.

Michael shrugged; "Well, plug your ears or something."

"Gwenny, do you have anything to eat?" Matthew asked.

"Check the fridge," Pangolin told him.

"How much do you think he'd charge me?" Michael asked. "I need to make a trip to Detroit in a few weeks and a bulletproof SIN'd be fucking magic."

Genevieve repeatedly slapped Michael in the shoulder; "Standing. Right. Here. You. Asshole."

"We'll talk about it later, Mike," Digby said while giving his sister a stony glare.

"Thank you!"

Matthew asked, "Is this dip any good?"

"The guacamole?" Pangolin enquired.

"Yeah."

"No."

Sarah shimmied under the door and said, "Hello?"

"He _hey_ , Sarah!" Michael grabbed his sister in a huge bear hug. What're you doing here? Everything OK?"

"Oh, yeah," Sarah assured him. "John has the girls tonight and I was talking to Matt and he said he was heading out this way so I thought I'd stop by; is that not OK?"

Digby grabbed Sarah by the shoulder and kissed her temple; "Of course it is!"

"It's fine," Pangolin said from under the van; "Not that anyone asked me."

"It's OK by me," Matthew told her as he went through Pangolin's refrigerator.

Genevieve said, "Its fine."

"Sam, why are you holding a gun?" Sarah asked her brother.

"I was thinking of shooting Mike," Digby told her with a deadpan expression on his face.

Sarah nodded; "Makes sense."

"Sarah!" Michael wailed.

Sarah blew Michael a kiss; "I love you!"

"Gwenny, how old is this…meat?" Matthew asked while holding up a plastic bag between his thumb and index finger.

Genevieve told him, "If you have to ask like that then don't eat it."

"I wasn't talking to you!" Matthew snapped.

"I know, but I was talking to _you_!" Genevieve shouted in response.

"It should be OK, but give some to Mike and see what happens first," Pangolin suggested. "I don't want to go to jail for poisoning a cop."

Michael moaned and said, "I'm feeling very unloved at the moment."

"Come here you poor baby!" Sarah grabbed Michael in a matronly hug.

"Gwenny, do you have anything besides beer to drink?" Sarah asked while still holding onto Michael.

Pangolin pointed toward the refrigerator, her little hand barely extending out from beneath the van. "Check the fridge, there should be something."

Matthew looked at his sister and said, "There's not."

"Should we order something?" Digby asked.

Sarah did a little hop and clapped her hands; "Ooh, let's get some pizzas!"

"Ugh, I've eaten pizza for like four out of five of my last meals," Matthew said, rubbing his stomach.

Michael looked at him and said "That can't be healthy."

"Serves you right for getting that apartment across the street from the pizza joint," Genevieve scolded. "You're gonna get faaaaaat!"

Michael snuck around behind his brother to grab hold of his love handles. "Lookit! He already is."

"Hey, let go, asshole!" Matthew shouted as he slapped at Michael's hands.

Sarah gasped; "Matthew!"

"What!?" Mathew wailed indignantly. "Yell at him, he's the one who grabbed my poor belly."

Sarah gave Matthew a wide-eyed, devilish smirk. "Well, he's not the fat-ass who called his brother an asshole, is he?"

Genevieve slapped Sarah's extended hand, shouting, "Whoo!"

Michael pointed to his younger brother and laughed pitilessly. "Hahhahahaha!"

Digby sucked air through his teeth; "Shot down by the soccer mom! Ouch."

"Officer _DOWN!_ "

Pangolin slid out from under the van, pointed at her brother and shouted, "Ha!"

"So where did we land on pizza?" Matthew asked.

 **Chapter 7**

Razorback walked alone on the sidewalk toward Pangolin's garage. He parked his car three blocks away, but only as a matter of general safety. It was a nice night for a walk; it was warm and breezy, and, for a nice change of pace, it had not rained all day. The garage was in a decent neighborhood on the south side of Renton, near the 405 cloverleaf, so there was no reason to worry about having trouble with the locals.

He had a full belly and some money in his accounts. Finger even dropped him a line to say how appreciative his client was that his daughter's extraction went so smoothly. It was by any metric a pleasant evening.

The lights were on in the garage, but the lights were on all the time anyway. Pangolin ran a successful business in addition to living inside, so something was always going on. Tonight the three bay doors facing the street were all closed, as was the front door into the office. That was irrelevant though; only customers used the front entrance. Everyone that knew Pangolin, or had unofficial business, went around to the back.

Razorback stopped out front of the building. The garage had superb soundproofing, not only from the thick plascrete and steel used to build it, but also due to the absorbent foam poured into the center of every wall during construction. But tonight he could hear voices from within – raised voices. He knew better than to try and use his augmented hearing to eavesdrop, however. Pangolin's brother Michael procured for her a high-frequency ultrasonic emitter, and her brother Digby installed it personally – meaning it was done right. Anyone who used electronic methods of audio eavesdropping would hear nothing but a shockingly painful, shrill screech.

It also kept the surrounding neighborhood free from stray animals.

The voices were loud, and there were a number of them.

Razorback looked for cars on the street or random pedestrians and saw neither. The waiting room was devoid of customers. And none of Pangolin's mechanics or drivers stood out front loitering in their customary positions, either.

At least one of the voices was feminine. It could be Pangolin's voice. It sure sounded like it through the wall.

Razorback drew the blackened K-Bar knife he kept sheathed on a leather cord under his shirt. The dikoted blade was single-edged, deadly sharp, and he was an expert in it use. Thirteen years in the Marines had made sure of that.

Moving in a crouch through the dark alley alongside the garage; Razorback tried to piece together the situation inside. It was difficult to identify how many unique voices were present. It sounded like it might be as many as half a dozen, but many sounded so similar that it was impossible to make a solid estimate. The conversation ebbed and flowed; there would be a glut of noise then it would die down, and then explode again. It sounded as if the group inside shouted in response to something.

He thought about simply calling Pangolin. If she were safe, that would be fine; if she were in danger and the group inside hooked into the garage's network, however, he would do nothing but tip off whoever it was to his presence. Silhouette could do it; he'd need to be present to crack the garage's host, though. The building's security against matrix intrusion was superb; Silhouette tested it himself and said it would take an expert of similar skill to crack.

None of Pangolin's drones seemed to be active, which was an ambiguous sign, at best. It could mean everything was okay and he worried for no reason; it might mean that whoever was here got the jump on her, or it might even mean that she'd been out-rigged.

Peering around the corner to the rear of the garage, Razorback angrily sucked in air through his teeth. An empty Knight Errant squad car and a large blacked-out panel van sat parked outside the partially-open rear bay door. The van was heavy, windowless, and most-likely armored – the kind favored by police for both covert surveillance and tactical assault. The drone hatches on the roof alluded to its designation for either urban combat or reconnaissance. Fortunately, they remained unopened.

Sneaking alongside the rear of the building, Razorback prepared himself. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and in a disadvantageous position right from the start. Only the initial surprise of his attack would afford him any options or chance of success. It was all irrelevant though; _Semper Fi_ was not something you said just to get free drinks at the VFW.

Crouching even lower, he executed a quick back and forth glance into the garage via the open receiving bay door. In that instant, all he saw were a pair of dwarven legs 1.5 meters into the open area of the garage and the barrel of a shotgun leaning against a stool beside the owner of said legs.

"Get her, get her!"

"NO! Stop it!"

"Do it! Do it!"

"Please don't!"

"You deserve it!"

Electric fire ran through Razorback's cybernetically enhanced nervous system. A massive dose of adrenaline, both naturally-occurring and supplemented via his internal reservoir, saturated his overstimulated augmented muscles. Launching explosively, he vaulted through the open door. Rolling to an crouch, he pivoted on the balls of his feet and brought the knife to bear. Then, converting his inertia into a tight spin, he slashed at the dwarf before he could grab the shotgun. Blade horizontal, edge facing backward, and point out; Razorback propelled the K-BAR with enough force to pierce armor, flesh, and bone.

Time slowed as he spun, driving his knife to take the throat of the dwarf. The advanced microprocessors in his cybereyes in combination with the hyperawareness generated by his wired reflexes allowed Razorback to take in the whole scene, even if it was out of context.

Six dwarves.

Beer.

Pizza.

A dwarf stuffing something into another's shirt.

One dwarf flailing wildly.

Five sets of eyes looking in his direction in shock and confusion.

He had milliseconds to react and it was not enough to time to abort his swing. Instead, Razorback converted his backhanded stab into a throw, adjusting the set of his wrist and hurling the knife away centimeters before it pierced the dwarf's larynx.

Digby's own reflexes leapt to his defense. His left hand grabbed Razorback's wrist and prevented it from striking his exposed neck; his right hand snapped out and gripped his attacker's shoulder to keep their bodies from colliding. The dwarf's innate strength and low center of gravity aided in stalling the larger ork's centripetal momentum.

"Hey Paul, want some pizza?" Digby asked, several beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"Jesus Christ, Sam; I'm sorry," Razorback gasped, hands on knees, shaking. The sudden shock of his mistake caused another dose of adrenaline to dump into his over-saturated system. His blood thundered in his ears, sweat beaded on his bald head to drip into his eyes, and his stomach twisted itself a clenched fist.

"No harm done," Digby assured him with a wry grin. Pangolin's oldest brother was a bit shorter than the average dwarf but wider again by a third. Like always, he dressed impeccably: slate grey slacks, authentic black leather belt and shoes, black dress shirt crisply pressed but open at the neck; jaw-length auburn hair combed back, and similarly colored beard cropped close and neatly trimmed. Both his hair and beard were generously shot-through with streaks of grey. The only thing that hinted at the fact that Digby was once something other than the successful businessman he was today was the scars. His arms, chest, and even face showed evidence of a different kind of life he left not so very long ago.

"Well, not _no_ harm. Did you have your bones done?" the dwarf asked as he massaged his hand. The point where he intercepted Razorback's thrust began turning red and had started to swell.

Razorback nodded; "Yeah. I had 'em done back when I was in the service."

"Aluminum?" he asked.

"High-density titanium3," Razorback said, correcting Digby's natural assumption. "Special Forces issue."

Digby said, "Very nice," appreciatively.

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?!" Razorback turned to see a female dwarf leveling a Predator at his head. A dirty blonde with shoulder length hair stared him dead in the eye over the sights of the pistol. She looked like an older version of Pangolin; same high cheekbones, wide mouth, dimples, and bright blue eyes. Unlike Pangolin, however, she wasn't greasy from head to toe, but instead dressed in a smart blue business suit and skirt. A gold Knight Errant lieutenant's badge was clipped to her belt.

"Jenny, this is Paul; he works with Gwen," Digby said, pointing first to the lady with the pistol and then back at Razorback; "Paul, this is my sister, Lieutenant Genevieve Saltzer; soon to be watch commander of Seattle precinct 12."

"Watch Commander, huh?" Razorback said with a grin. "Nice to meet ya."

"I'm sure," she replied, scowling and holstering her pistol.

Digby chuckled; "You've met Mike before, right?"

'Mithril' Mike Saltzer was the diametric opposite of his brother. Thick bushy beard, wild black hair, loud Hawaiian shirt, jeans, boots, and covered with lamp blue tattoos; he looked every inch what he was: a streetwise crook. Specifically, a well-known fence and smuggler.

"Oh yeah, I know Mike," he said, reaching out to shake the dwarf's extended hand.

"The officer over there – who somehow never managed to draw his piece to defend his beloved older brother – is my younger brother, Matt," Digby said.

Matt Saltzer closely resembled his older brother. He had the same auburn hair and same chiseled features, but whereas Digby was fit and well-groomed, his brother was chubby and disheveled.

"Howdy." Matt nodded as means of greeting while he dried his hands on his pants. A pile of ice from the cooler sat melting at his feet; he stopped trying to stuff it down his sister's shirt when Razorback came summersaulting into the garage.

Pointing to the dwarf who was on the receiving end of the ice, Digby said, "That beautiful dwarf over there who looks scared and confused is my sister, Sarah. One of the few of the Saltzer clan who's had the decency to provide me with some nieces to spoil."

Sarah Saltzer looked similar to her sisters. Though she had a couple more kilos and a few extra lines on her face, she retained the bright eyes and broad smile of her siblings. "Hello," she greeted him with a sincere smile and wave.

"So, is nobody going to explain why he came flying in here like a madman waving a knife? He almost took off Sam's head, but now somehow everything's okay!?" Genevieve demanded of her siblings. Hands on her hips, she swept her collected family with a disapproving look.

"Well, ah…" Razorback stammered, trying to come up with a justifiable excuse for his aggressive entrance.

"It's fine, Jenny. It probably wouldn't have happened though, if someone hadn't parked a squad car around back where it doesn't belong," Digby said, eyeballing his sister.

Genevieve confronted her brother, exasperated and turning red with anger. "So, it's _my_ fault?"

Digby shook his head; "No, it was just an unfortunate misunderstanding that could probably have been avoided with some forethought. Shit like that is how stupid mistakes become regrettable tragedies."

"Fine; it's my fault," Genevieve said. Her body language and tone suggested that she thought it was anything but. "I'm sorry."

"No-no; it's on me. I read too much inta the situation 'nd overreacted. Sorry, everyone," Razorback apologized.

"You here for those eyeballs?" Pangolin asked, hopping off the van's bumper.

"Yeah," he replied. Glad for the change in topic, he said, "She's been up my ass about 'em. But, uh, maybe we should do this some other time?" he enquired, looking in Genevieve's direction.

"Nope, it's fine; she's not allowed to do anything about it," Pangolin responded dismissively.

"Not allowed?" Razorback looked back and forth between Pangolin and her sister, unsure how to read the situation.

Walking across the garage to her massive workshop area, she said, "Nope," and failed to elaborate.

The multi-stationed, dwarf-proportioned bench consumed one entire wall of the garage. Hanging above it from a complicated halo of steel racks were dozens of both pneumatic and electric tools attached to retractable cables. Thousands of tools and parts were neatly organized on shelves, bins, pegs, racks, and hooks anchored into the wall behind the bench. Countless boxes, drums, containers, crates and stacks of metal and plastic feedstock sat piled beneath the nanoforge that occupied one entire section of the bench, too. And in the center of it all was a multi-stage terminal that hardwired everything together.

As Pangolin approached the raised workshop area, a bevy of overhead halogen lights sprang to life, bathing the area in a blue-white glow.

"It's a commandment set down from on-high. The cops can't arrest the crooks, and the crooks aren't allowed to shoot at any cops," Digby said as he fished a beer out of the cooler and tossed it to Razorback.

"What does 'on-high' mean?" he asked.

Michael answered, "Our folks; pops was a crook and mom a cop."

"How'd that ever work?"

Digby popped the tab on a fresh beer and said, "It's a long story, but the highlights are: pops scored big, ma pinched him, pops beat it somehow – he never told us how, ma chased him down, some cat-and-mouse bullshit ensued, they both retired on the money from pops' score and started crankin' out kids."

"You make it sound so, so… I don't know; so incredibly tacky, Sam!" Sarah scolded. "It's a romantic story!"

"Whatever; that's the basics, more or less," Mike argued impassively while he followed Pangolin over to her workshop. "We try not to make it too tough on the coppers, but they like to give us shit anyway."

"We give _YOU_ shit?!" Genevieve shouted. "I'm standing in the middle of one giant goddamned felony, and the only thing I've asked is that you not talk about your illegal activities when I'm around – and you can't even do that! Hell, that bench alone is probably enough to put Gwenny away for life!"

"Leave me out of it, please," Pangolin requested coolly. She retrieved a small gray plastic crate approximately 20 centimeters square from the workbench. "Here ya go. All wiped and re-chipped."

"Thanks. Sorry to do this to you, Gwen, but she paid in scrip. I did manage to squeeze almost twenty-five percent over price from her, though. So, I can give you fifteen hundred now in scrip or gimme a few days and I can get tha twelve fifty in real money. Your call."

"Which mega?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Passing her the credit sticks, he said, "Mitsu."

"That's fine," she snatched the small bundle and made it disappear within the pockets on her coveralls. "I'll make it work."

Grateful, Razorback said, "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Yup."

"What'cha got there?" Digby asked, joining his sister and Razorback.

Razorback shook the small box so that the contents rattled; "Box of flyin' eyes a friend wants wiped before she used 'em."

Digby set his beer down and asked, "Mind if I take a look?"

"Be my guest." Razorback handed over the crate to the dwarf.

Digby removed one of the tiny drones from the crate and handed the remainder back. He looked over the case for several seconds, paying particular attention to the camera lenses and the propulsion nozzles. Then, placing his thumbs in the two hidden pressure tabs, he popped open the shell to reveal the drone's guts. Turning it over and over in his hands with a practiced motion, the dwarf examined every millimeter before snapping the case back on and placing it back in the crate.

"Grading my work, Sam?" Pangolin questioned her older brother.

"You betcha," he said.

"How'd she do?" Razorback asked, grinning at Pangolin.

"A minus."

" _WHAT?!_ " Pangolin exploded, stomping towards her brother, red-faced and squint-eyed. Her wild mane of grease-stained blond curls and piercing blue eyes made her look particularly manic at the moment.

Digby held up his hands and backpedaled. "Sorry, kiddo, you left a fingerprint on the inside of the case."

"A fingerprint? How do you even know it's mine?" Pangolin yelled. She was standing face to face with her brother, viciously poking him in the chest.

"I just do," Digby grinned, unfazed by his sister's attack. "Besides, it doesn't matter if it's yours or not, though it is; you should've seen it and wiped it clean."

"Well, A minus is good enough for me. Thanks, Gwen," Razorback said. He meant it as a compliment, but as soon as the words left his mouth he knew that he had made a mistake.

Pangolin turned on Razorback, hands at her sides and balled into fists; " _Whatdidyousay?!_ You think my work is A minus, too? You think you can find someone else better'n me that'll do your little chickenshit favors? Well, next time get them to do it! Get the hell outta my garage!"

"Right, well; it was nice ta meet ya," Razorback said as he backed away from the furious dwarf. "Sorry 'bout earlier."

 **Chapter 7.5**

Later that evening, when only Digby and Pangolin remained to clean up the mess, the older dwarf paused and asked to his sister, "How many of those you put pingers in?"

"All of 'em. Why?"

"I was just curious." Digby looked thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, "Why?"

"'Cuz I don't trust the woman he got those for," Pangolin explained, looking up from her sweeping. "Every time she rolls into town, she stirs up a cloud of trouble around Paul. She stirs up the drek and then blows town and leaves him to deal with the fallout. It pisses me off and fouls-up my bottom line."

"Who's the girl?" Digby asked.

Pangolin snorted derisively; "A keebler that calls herself – I shit you not – Nefertari."

"Never heard of her," he admitted.

Pangolin shrugged; "Not missin' much."

"Make sure to check if the 'sticks a screamer," Digby warned her.

"I have a dead-wire stick reader," she said.

"Where's the pinger telemetry DL to?" he asked.

"Stand-alone hard drive out in the boonies," she replied.

"Anyone else know about it?"

"Nope."

Digby nodded approvingly; "Good girl."

He returned to picking up beer cans and pizza boxes. Pangolin resumed sweeping.

Ten minutes passed in relative silence.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You didn't really find a fingerprint in that case, did you?" Pangolin asked sullenly.

"Yep."

"Frak."

 **Chapter 8**

Jester looked down at the hotel, counting the floors. The building upon which he crouched was 59 stories tall, the adjacent hotel 37. That was a vertical drop of 73.75 meters in addition to the 4.75 meters needed to cross the gap between buildings.

Walking back to where he left his duffel bag full of supplies, he nudged the corpse of the security guard out of his way. With a twitch of the powerful cybernetic muscles in his leg, he sent the body disjointedly skidding farther than a meter. From within the large black duffel bag he collected a set of steel climbing pitons and a coil of nylon rope – amongst other things. Using his alloyed fist as a hammer, he drove three of the pitons 20 centimeters into the roof's porous hydroplast tiles. Stringing the rope between them, he created a weight-distribution rig.

Clipping the rope to the rig, Jester walked to the ledge and hopped over. Using the unnatural strength in his left hand he slowed his descent, creeping down the side of the building while observing the opposite roof.

He had little fear of getting spotted; both his arms and legs were a non-reflective, gunmetal-grey color that naturally blended-in with the background in most environments. The snug, black armored T-shirt and grey-black camouflaged cargo pants he wore also afforded a certain amount of concealment. In addition to it being three a.m. on an overcast night, the massive hologramatic display attached to the next building over created deep shadows on the portion of the wall he climbed down.

A quick check revealed there to be two sentries and no drones on this portion of the hotel's roof. Each guard carried a light assault rifle, but neither seemed to be combat-geared; no body armor, grenades, or even secondary weaponry was evident. Jester paused for a moment, observing the situation. After a brief period of analysis, he switched to a thermographic visual filter and swept the roof a second time. Leaning against one of the retaining walls of the decorative rooftop garden was a metahuman heat signature.

He watched for a time, unable to decide if the hidden person was an invisible mage or someone using optic camouflage.

Ultimately, it made no difference.

Positioning his bare feet flat on the wall, he bent into a hanging crouch and fired the hydraulic jacks in his calves. With a tremendous force, the wall behind him crumpled and he flew through the air – for a brief time ignoring gravity. As he hurtled across the rapidly-dwindling gap, targeting software painted real-time-sensitive reticules over the two visible guards. During the momentary distraction caused by the adjacent building's wall shattering, Jester drew the suppressed Walther from his shoulder holster. Firing four rounds, two into the upturned faces of each guard, he killed the sentries before they could react.

The mystery-man threw aside the sheet of optic camouflage and attempted to bring his weapon to bear. It was too late. Jester landed on his chest with both knees, simultaneously muting the sound of his landing and crushing the man's ribcage.

Holstering his pistol after firing two rounds into the third guard's head, Jester calmly walked over to the body of the first guard he killed. Crouching on the balls of his bare feet to rifle through the corpse's pockets for his commlink, he indiscriminately discarded everything else – regardless of value. Once located, he wire-jacked the dead man's commlink to a second, special device he received specifically for this job. A 15 centimeter, dual-USB 9 cable connected the two commlinks, allowing the off-site hacker access to the security team's network.

A small, stand-alone Quonset hut structure intended to compliment the rooftop garden's jungle motif housed the only visible entrance to the hotel from the roof. Designed to look flimsy, the hut was actually composed of a lightweight plasteel and protein-silk mesh that made it both weather resistant and incredibly durable. The sole entrance into the windowless hut was a solid-core, galvanized steel door. The door had no visible means of manipulation; no push bar, knob, or handle.

Adjacent to the door and seamlessly anchored to the wall was a small, featureless panel.

"Once you breach the case you'll have less than a second to jack-in. Any longer than that and I won't have time to prevent the alarm from going off," a modulated voice announced. "Let me know when you're ready".

Jester removed a tightly coiled cable from one of his multitude of pants' pockets. Longer than the previous one, it measured nearly 2 meters. One end had a standard USB connection, the other end terminated in a sharp, platinum-toothed alligator clip. By firmly pressing the clip's teeth through the plastic sheathing of the cable that married the two commlinks, Jester created a hacking jig that was capable of accessing both commlinks and the site's wireless security simultaneously.

Consciously activating the heavy-cesium battery located where his gall bladder had once been; Jester caused a massive stream of potential energy to course throughout his body. It was supplemental energy he needed for his high-tuned nervous system and power-hungry cybernetic muscles to function at peak super-metahuman performance.

Jester counted down: "Three, two, one."

The microprocessors in his eyes drew enough power to make their humming audible. With his left hand he ripped the cover off the panel; with his right he plugged the comm jig into the available USB port. His proprioception was so close to perfect that even though his hands moved faster than even he could track, the execution was flawless.

"Point two-two seconds," the warbling voice on the other end of the channel told him, obviously impressed. "I'm in control; the rest is up to you. No witnesses."

"Understood."

A distinct 'thunk' signaled the disengagement of the maglock.

Jester pushed his way through the now-open door and into the small hut. Shelves stocked with chemicals lined the interior walls. Along both sides ran tables stacked-high with gloves, shears, pots, hand tools and mounds of composted soil. The heat and humidity was oppressive. The smell was staggering.

The auxiliary stairs descending into the hotel stood at the opposite end of the Quonset hut, as did a young Latino ork in what appeared to be a maintenance uniform. At the sight of Jester, bloody and armed, he dropped the joint he was smoking and began to shout.

High-end cybereyes working in tandem with his overclocked nervous system made it appear as if the ork's expression had frozen in time. Drawing his pistol and firing twice; Jester placed two bullets into the young man's heart. He died before hitting the floor.

Jester stood for a moment and watched as the widening pool of blood crept out and extinguished the joint slowly burning-away on the floor. A sense of deja vu gave him pause as he stepped over the corpse, but he was unable to place its source.

There were so many and everything was so far away.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small hall and another door and panel setup similar to the one attached to the hut. This one, however, had an overhead pneumatic piston that would automatically engage to physically open the door whenever someone with the correct credentials approached.

"Two guards posted-up on either side. They're both leaning against the wall," the hacker's voice informed him via the secure channel.

Transferring his pistol to his left hand, Jester whispered, "Do it."

The maglock disengaged and the piston retracted, causing the door to open. Jester thrust his right hand through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb, forcing it to open faster. The sudden compression shattered the piston's housing and ripped the door free from the top hinge. Capitalizing on the drive created by wrenching open the door, he pulled himself into the carpeted hall of the hotel.

Spinning on the ball of his right foot, Jester drove his elbow into the diaphragm of a surprised security guard. Simultaneously, he extended his left arm, jamming the tip of his Walther's barrel under the jaw of the second guard. The stunned man was unable to react before a bullet tore through his skull. A second elbow crushed the remaining guard's face and jaw, rendering her insensate.

Both crumpled to the floor, one dead and the other unconscious.

Jester placed his foot on the nape of the stunned woman's neck. For a moment she seemed as though she would resist, but the damage he had done to her jaw and upper palate placed her in a state of shock. Exerting both a downward and twisting force, he destroyed the young woman's vertebrae and severed her spinal cord. It took but a few seconds for her to die beneath his heel.

"You are on the thirty-fifth floor; the target is on the twenty-ninth. The thirtieth floor and the twenty-eighth are heavily guarded," the unknown decker updated. "It might be best to grab one of those MP-5's."

A yellow light blinked in the corner of Jester's vision, indicating low ammunition in his Walther. He ejected the near-empty clip and tossed it into the short hallway at the base of the steps. The two corpses and their weapons followed suit, coming to rest in rumpled piles of oddly-arranged barrels and limbs. Finally, he reset the door into the jamb; it was beyond repair, and any interaction would reveal it as such, but it would stand up to casual scrutiny.

"Whatever man; just get the job done." The decker's irritation was evident even through the voice modulator.

The reactive surface of the wall initiated a self-cleaning protocol to remove the blood spatter from the paint. Similarly, a maintenance drone arrived to spray astringent cleanser onto the stained carpet. As it did that, it gathered up the spent casing and broken teeth with a pair of mechanical arms. All the while, it buzzed and chirped a merry little muzak-style tune.

Jester followed the AR trail through the maze of identical corridors. The hotel was a Tong front for laundering money, so was almost entirely empty of guests. But since the Tong designed it, strict Feng Shui precepts dictated every single facet of the building. The adherents of the discipline likely found the confusing arrangement of meandering halls and oddly-ordered room numbers pleasing.

Passing one of the numerous sets of interconnected elevators, he made his way to the emergency stairs. Due to necessary observance of Seattle's overabundance of bureaucratic building codes, the fire exits were not subject to the randomness of Feng Shui.

"Alarm?"

"Give me a second; it's on an isolated node within the host," the decker replied. "Everything scans. I can't believe how fra…AAAARRRRRGGGGSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH!"

Jester immediately cut the feed from the decker's commlink and ordered his own hardware to purge their connection. He set in motion an array of defensive measures: activating a supplemental firewall, triggering AICM routines, and running multiple anti-virus scanners. His protective software reset in order to remove all common datapoints and prevent IC from attacking him through any open channels in his PAN.

Severing all connections to the matrix, Jester adjusted the settings on his cybernetic systems to reject outside signals. Referred to as 'hermit' mode, it would help defend his now-vulnerable systems from attack. A persistent hacker would still be able to break through, but it would be time consuming. Hopefully, that extra time would be enough for him to either escape or kill his assailant.

Jogging back the way he came, he returned to the broken door. Throwing it aside, he sloshed through the cooling pool of blood to retrieve one of the unfired MP-5's. Plundering the two corpses produced four additional clips. The full clip from the second gun brought the total to five.

Unwilling to spend precious time navigating the ridiculous maze of halls, and unable to access AR functions; Jester jogged to the elevator. Pressing the call button, he dropped onto his belly with the weapon aimed at the median point of the elevator doors.

Thirteen minutes passed since his arrival on the roof. The mission should be near its midpoint; instead, his hacker was dead or incapacitated, and the internal security systems were almost certainly activated. Plus, the target's own supplemental security was undoubtedly on high-alert. They would have completed personnel check-ins and identified their downed men. Process of elimination would pinpoint Jester's position, and in moments the area swarm with private security and Tong gunmen.

It made no difference. The target was on the twenty-ninth floor.

The elevator doors opened and Jester fired, emptying a full clip into the small space. Direct hits and ricochets perforated the three men in off-the-rack business suits who rode inside. Ejecting the spent clip and loading a fresh one, Jester stepped into the elevator and systematically fired a single bullet into the skulls of each downed man. Standing amidst their evacuating corpses, he pressed the button for the twenty-ninth floor.

The elevator doors slammed shut and the red emergency light strobed brightly overhead.

Doubling the input sensitivity on his cyberears, he placed his face flush against the door of the elevator. Though muffled, he could hear voices on the other side. They sounded far-enough away to be at the other end of the hall, but their increased volume told him they ran in his direction.

Jester retrieved one of the three compression grenades from the mesh pouch clipped to his belt. The grenades were prohibitively expensive and incredibly difficult to obtain, but undeniably effective. Each was a sphere eight centimeters in diameter, in the center of which a pellet of compressed osmium hung suspended in a bath of liquid helium. The grenades are electromagnetically sealed within a laminated casing composed of an internal layer of gas-impermeable acrylic, a thin layer of case-hardened steel, and finally encapsulated within an outer layer of high-density graphene mesh. An external ignition device utilizing a copper-thermite pin is then affixed to the grenade and detonated remotely. When the thermite ignites – piercing the casings and dispersing the liquid helium – the osmium violently expands. The sudden expansion creates a shockwave that does considerable soft-target damage with no risk of combustion and only minimal shrapnel.

Extending the finger blades on his left hand, he slashed open the belly of the largest of the three dead men. Jester then shoved the grenade deep into the corpse's gut. At the same time, he activated his cybereye's zoom feature and reduced audio gain by one hundred and ninety percent.

Retracting the blades and hefting the corpse, he used his foot to wedge open the elevator. A second push opened the door the remainder of the way. Without exposing his body, Jester flung the mutilated corpse down the hall in the direction of the voices' origin.

Gunfire erupted, perforating the airborne body. At the apogee of the body's arcing flight, Jester remotely triggered the grenade.

The airborne corpse disintegrated into red slush and skeletal shrapnel. Walls, floors, and ceilings shattered and collapsed. Sprinklers dropped from recessed compartments hidden overhead and began spraying beige, fire-retardant foam. Interactive panels within the walls flashed yellow while red LED arrows in the floor pointed the way to emergency exits.

Jester leapt out of the elevator and accelerated at full speed through the cloud of aerosolized flesh hanging in the air. Four human-sized images clustered in the emergency exit's doorway, each recoiling in some manner from the explosion.

It was 12.7 meters from the elevator to the emergency exit. In the course of covering that distance, Jester emptied the coopted MP-5's clip into the four contour-mapped profiles by means of six short bursts of five rounds each.

All four reeled from the assault. Two fell.

Returning his vision depth to default, resetting his aural gain and tossing aside the now-empty weapon; Jester concentrated on dodging falling debris. Seven meters separated him from the recovering Tong gunmen. Two of them remained unaffected by the hail of bullets; whether by benefit of agility, armor, magic, cyberware, or luck was indeterminate. One man struggled to regain his feet, though clearly injured. The fourth lay dead or dying, his body propping open the emergency exit.

Irrelevant. The target was on the twenty-ninth floor.

Running full speed, Jester hopped, landed, bent his knees, leaned into the crouch and fired the hydraulic jacks in his calves. The explosive force generated crushed the floor beneath his feet and sent him hurtling towards the recovering gunmen like a kinetic missile.

A set of concealed mechanical latches snapped open and Jester's left wrist folded back against his forearm. A dual-staged blade emerged from his within; the first piece locked into place at the aperture of his wrist and had a notched tab at the tip. The second section slid along a groove in the first via a spring-loaded cable, locking in-place over the exposed tab to form one solid weapon 36 centimeters long.

A second weapon sprang out of his right arm, extending laterally on an internal hinge near the elbow. The full length of the blade extended 25 centimeters and projected out from his forearm at a 30 degree angle. Whereas his left arm's blade is ideal for piercing, this one was wider, thicker, and single-edged; a weapon made for chopping.

Of the two men who remained on their feet, one had the wherewithal and reflexes to leap out of the way of Jester's lunging assault. The other impulsively unloaded the Uzi he carried. In his panic he squeezed and held the trigger, emptying the clip. Adrenaline and muzzle-climb eliminated any accuracy, though, and he ineffectually sprayed the hall and ceiling with bullets.

The narrow blade transfixed the Tong's chest, piercing his sternum. Jester's weight and inertia carried the spitted man back into and through the emergency exit. An eructation of hot, bloody vomit sprayed his face as the dying man gurgled and thrashed futilely. With a backhand slash, Jester cleaved the Tong's throat down to the spine.

Now standing in the emergency stairwell, he disassembled and retracted the blade housed in his left arm. Snapping his wrist back into place, he scooped up the dying Tong gangster and, using him as a shield, dashed back into the hall.

Of the original four, two remained. The first was on his knees gasping from a sucking chest wound. Short, spikey black hair, dark pants, red silk shirt, copious jewelry and animated nano-tattoos of coiling dragons – he was every inch the stereotypical Tong gangster. Staring in terror, the injured man franticly tried to staunch the wound in his side, all the while gibbering something unintelligible in Cantonese.

With a casual horizontal swing, the acid-edged blade sticking out of Jester's right arm lobotomized the wounded gangster and sent the top of his head splattering to the floor.

A burst of gunfire tore into the corpse shield, forcing Jester to stagger back a few steps. The last of the Tong crouched in a small alcove between two vending machines in an adjoining corridor. His eyes ratcheted open in fear, he white-knuckled an older model Ceska Black Scorpion.

Jester tossed the body he held at the Tong. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction it caused when the living man tried to escape getting struck by his dead counterpart, he dashed into the same alcove – except on the opposite side of the vending machine. As the Tong tried to extricate himself from between the machines and beneath the corpse, Jester leaned his shoulder against the machine and fired the jacks in his calves again.

The vending machine crumpled and smashed into the machine next to it, pulverizing both the living and the dead. Dozens of yellow warning lights flashed in Jester's vision, indicating stressor damage he'd inflicted on his own shoulder and knee.

It was within acceptable parameters. It was unimportant. The target was on the twenty-ninth floor.

Returning to the emergency stairs, he stepped over the corpses at the door and leapt down the length of the staircase. By repeating the process multiple times, Jester was able to rapidly travel from the thirty-fifth floor to the thirtieth.

At the small landing in-between the 30th and 29th floors, two men in suits dashed out from the blind spot beneath the stairs. The first was tall and heavily-built, with short-cropped hair and wielding another MP-5. The second was significantly shorter and less physically fit, but carried himself with the same bearing of confidence as his more martial looking companion.

The taller of the two was unnaturally quick, snapping his weapon into firing position and shooting a controlled burst the moment he had a clear line of sight. Jester's enhanced reflexes allowed him to escape lethal damage by grabbing the stair's railing and hurling himself up and clear.

"Gotcha, cocksucker!" The gunman bounded up the stairs in a single leap while training his weapon on Jester's trajectory. The muzzle of the MP-5 flashed three times; one bullet flew wide, the next ricocheted off Jester's alloyed knee, and the third buried itself in the cybernetic muscle of his right hip.

Red and yellow lights flashed in his HUD, signifying both structural and infrastructural damage to the leg's cybernetic systems.

Drawing his weapon in mid-air, Jester came down flat on his back on the thirtieth floor landing. Using his remaining momentum he rolled back onto his shoulders and executed a one-armed handspring, rotating in mid-air in order to return to a vertical posture. At the apex of the maneuver he fired three bullets; the first glanced off the top of his assailant's head, the second punctured his left cheek, and the third tore through the nasal aperture and into the brain.

Blood and brains oozed out of the dead man's ruined face as he collapsed to the floor.

The second of the target's security detail rounded the staircase and, despite the look of consternation on his face over his partner's fate, aggressively raised his hand. The mage pointed the index and middle fingers of his right hand at Jester; in his left he held a small sphere of coalescing red-orange light. Despite being more than four meters away, the stocky magician thrust his outstretched fingers at Jester, as if to stab him.

There was momentary flash of light and he was blind.

He immediately cranked-up his audio gain two hundred percent and set his cyberears' filter to automatically mute the report frequency of all catalogued small-arms models. At the same time, Jester tuck-and-rolled to his right in an effort avoid the inevitable second spell of the mage's one-two punch. By way of flipping a mental switch, he activated his internal echo-locational acoustic rendering implant and its synesthetic co-processor. When operated in tandem, the two devices converted reflected sound into a wireframe topographical 3D image.

Springing to his feet, he aimed the Walther at the mage. The hard surfaces in the emergency exit provided plenty of sonic reverberation for the EAR system.

All his surroundings were contour-mapped. Thousands of thin green lines representing the exterior physical topography of every solid object within ear-shot got compiled and rendered. This created a sense of vision based upon relief; lines and their absence represented the physical world.

With careful aim, Jester fired and pierced the mage's left hand just as he prepared to launch whatever spell he primed. Mana, which has no mass, did not register to the EAR system. The shape and posture of the mage's hand, however, indicated that he was both gripping something and in the process of throwing it.

Whatever the mage intended to cast went awry when the hand holding the spell got injured. Jester could feel the furnace blast of heat and violent concussion of the explosion. A bevy of warning lights flashed in his HUD, indicating significant threat to his intra-cranial systems. The failsafe measures in his ears immediately activated to prevent considerable aural damage from over-stimulation. Without audio input the EAR system was useless and he was truly both blind and deaf.

The last image he observed was the now one-armed mage getting thrown by his own explosion.

Moments later, Jester's eyesight returned; first filmy and distorted, but it soon returned to its original clarity.

The mage lay in a smoldering heap. Both his left arm and a significant chunk of his chest got destroyed, reduced to steaming chunks of unidentifiable meat. Despite the missing bulk of his torso, the mage's fatal wound was bloodless, having self-cauterized due to the intensity of the flames.

Pausing for a moment, Jester rummaged through one of his many belt pouches. Finding one of the small lozenge-shaped blue and green capsules, he twisted it lengthwise until he heard the _snap_ of the internal seal. He shoved the antiseptic gel-tab into the open bullet wound in his hip, ignoring the pain. Almost immediately, the outer coating of the pill started to dissolve and release pinkish foam. The gas-permeable solution created a flexible seal for the wound. The foam not only would keep the wound clean and prevent fluid loss, but would draw the bullet to the surface, thus allowing for easy removal at a later time.

Reloading and holstering the Walther; Jester jogged down the stairs, stopping along the way to retrieve the dead security escort's weapon. Serendipitously, it was without biometric lockouts. He ejected the partially spent clip and loaded one he had looted from the guards on the thirty-fifth floor.

The emergency exit to the twenty-ninth floor was open and unguarded.

On the other side of the door was a 'T' intersection of halls with the fire exit located at the junction. Jester, with his back to the wall inside the emergency stairs, twisted his neck to glance inside. At the far end of the passage two armed men in suits tried to hustle-along a family of five. The middle aged man in the center of the group was the target he needed to eliminate.

One of the bodyguards shouted furiously at the family while the other blindly sprayed the hallway with bullets.

Jester leapt across the gap and sprinted down the adjoining hall, running parallel to the target on the opposite side of the hotel. At the first available corridor he made a hard right, and then another left when the hall came to a 'T'. He heard the second of the target's two remaining security detail running somewhere behind him.

Dashing through the empty halls, he dropped one of the compression grenades on the carpeted floor. Deprived of his implanted commlink's higher functions, he could not access the grenade's remote trigger. Without wireless connectivity, the grenade would detonate five seconds after he triggered it manually. There were too many variables to determine if the corp-sec goon running behind him would get caught in the blast. Regardless of whether or not the grenade failed to eliminate his pursuer, it would unquestionably destroy the hallway and impede his progress.

Making another hard right at the next intersection put Jester on an intercept course with the family. Emerging from an adjoining hallway, the target's remaining security guard spotted him first. He was unable to line up a shot before the bodyguard dropped into a kneeling firing stance. As bullets ripped through the corridor, Jester fired the jump jack in his left leg and propelled himself through the wall on his right.

At the same time as he crashed through a tangle of aluminum studs and never-used clearinghouse furniture, Jester's grenade exploded. The room shook from the force of the blast. Furniture toppled both from his graceless entry and the shockwave that ripped through the walls. Hidden warning lights embedded in the ceiling flashed as more fire retardant foam sprayed the whole area.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in his hip, Jester sprang to his feet.

Grabbing a pillow, Jester tossed it out into the hall. Tumbling right behind it, he hoped that the corp-sec escort's reflexes might work in his favor.

A trio of bullets perforated the pillow while Jester summersaulted to his feet. The opposing gunman used the wall for cover as he adjusted his aim post mistake. Jester fired a series of controlled bursts into the corner. A sharp cry of pain followed by a heavy thud reinforced the notion that drywall did not stop bullets at 3 meters.

Moving as fast as possible with the damage to his hip; he dashed along the corridor to intercept the now-unguarded family as they made their attempt at escape. Jester paused momentarily to fire three bullets into the chest of the security guard trying to lever himself back onto his feet, then continued running. As he prepared to make yet another turn down an identically-empty hallway, his target stepped out to block his path.

"S-st- _STOP!_ " Yuri Fleming shouted, holding his arms out to block Jester's path. "I-I won't run, just let them go. Please!"

Jester raised the MP-5 and touched Fleming's chest with the tip of the muzzle. "No witnesses."

"They didn't see your face! Just let th–oh no…"

The youngest of Fleming's children, a boy of around five, came running. The child gripped his father's leg and buried his face in his pants, wailing uncontrollably. The mother was a few steps behind. She skidded to a halt when she saw Jester; her two older children trailed her by only a few meters.

"Helena…what have you done?" Fleming whispered.

"H-he got away from me…I'm so sorry," she wept. "I was trying to run and he wriggled free. He…"

"No witnesses."

"Oh God, please don't do this," Fleming begged, tears running down his cheeks. "It's not their fault."

As the Evo whistleblower, Yuri Fleming, pleadingly reached out toward Jester, three bullets shredded his heart. His family devolved in shock and grief as he slumped to the floor. The children huddled over their dead father and the mother ineffectually threw herself on top of them as a shield. All four wailed uncontrollably.

Jester looked in the direction of Fleming's outstretched hand, at the broken remains of the dying man's family and the sense of déjà vu flooded over him again. This time, however, the feeling was so strong it allowed him to remember – if only for a moment.

He remembered Zagreb in winter. He was a child. He remembered fighting and killing just to have enough clothes and food to keep warm in the slums. There was another there with him; he remembered having to fight the other person's share to keep them alive as well. The memory suggested that he did not mind; in fact, he seemed as though he might be glad to do it. But he was unsure. Nevertheless, there was no name or face he could remember. Fighting and killing everyday just to keep that other person alive seemed unlike something he would do, but the memory appeared to be authentic. A mountain of dead just for that other person, yet it gave the impression of being worth it.

Then, everything faded back to garbled, indistinct hippocampic noise.

When he snapped back to the present, Jester heard the woman shouting at him. His hand whipped out to cover her mouth and he asked, "What do I look like?"

"Wh-wh-I—"

He touched the tip of the MP-5 to her chest and repeated his question. "What do I look like?"

Fleming's daughter rose off her father's corpse, wiped her nose and eyes, and said, "You're an Asian ork with tattoos."

"Eva…what're you talki—?"

"The man who killed father was an Asian ork with tattoos on his arm, mother," the young girl said defiantly. "I saw him with my own two eyes. You did, too."

"Cybereyes?" Jester asked, pointing at the mother's face suggestively.

"No, none of us have cybereyes," the daughter told him. "My father was a Humanist."

"Commlinks. Now." Jester demanded, holding out his hand.

"Eva…I don't understand what you're doing. Why're you talking like that?" the mother asked. The look on her face told Jester that she was near her breaking point.

"Don't worry, mother; it'll be okay," the daughter reassured her while gathering commlinks from her siblings and mother. She balked when forced to gather the one from her father's corpse.

"I…"

Jester moved the girl's two sobbing brothers off the corpse with his foot. "Where?"

"Don't you touch them, you son of a bitch!" the mother screamed, throwing herself in between Jester and her children.

"Mother you have to move," the girl said. She then pointed to Fleming's right front pocket and told Jester, "It's in there."

"Eva! Why're you helping him?!"

Jester looked at her for a moment before saying, "To save your life."

The mother sat dumbfounded as Jester pilfered Fleming's corpse.

After retrieving the commlink, Jester tucked all five into a small pouch on his belt. He then ejected the magazine from the MP-5 and threw it, end over end, down the hall. Finally, he cleared the chambered round from the submachinegun by pulling sharply on the charging lever.

As he prepared to dispose of the weapon, he remembered something someone did for him once when he was young. Jester caught the bullet in midair then offered it to the young girl. "Hold this for me, if you like."

Cautiously taking it from his open hand, she looked up at him with eyes full of hate and said, "I will."

 **Chapter 9**

"Do you know why I'm here, Mister del'Piaz?"

"Do-do I know why you're here? Do I know why you're here?! This motherfucker…" del'Piaz shook his head melodramatically, "You're here because after you tried to _fuck me_ out of a hundred thousand nuyen you went running to my brother like a little bitch. Then, after he let you lick his hand for a while, he sent you here to be his fucking watchdog."

The twenty-plus Chulos laughed uproariously – as was required of them. El Gatos Loco, the largest of the whorehouses owned and operated by the gang closed its doors to the public for the meeting. All of the captains and lieutenants of the Seattle area were present, as were their individual lackeys and favorite whores. They were all there to hear what Lysaker had to say – or, more specifically, what del'Piaz had to say to him.

"While I appreciate the brevity of your summation, it lacks quite a bit of accuracy, I'm afraid." Lysaker refused to allow himself to get drawn-in by del'Piaz' insults and derogatory tone. He expected Gabriel del'Piaz to be hostile – Señor Machado had told him such would be the case – consequently, he had prepared to endure a verbal assault. "You brother reached out to me, mister del'Piaz, not the other way around. And concerning the money you lost on the deal with Miss Nowiki; I assure you, I lost quite a bit more. Not only was I bereft of fiduciary remuneration, but I lost a very important contact and made an enemy I cannot afford to have made. We have both been put in an unfortunate position, mister del'Paiz."

"Is that what you think, eh? That you and me, we're what…we're kindred spirits now?" del'Piaz pointed at him and looked around the room, collecting sneers, head nods, and low, throaty laughs from the assemblage.

"Perhaps not in so man—

"Look at me you piece of shit!" del'Piaz screamed, wincing at the pain it caused. "Look at what that fucking prick did to my face! That fucking bitch you let get away stomped by heuvos so bad I had to have surgery – on my fucking _balls!_ I lost one; you know that, vato? I lost one of my motherfucking balls 'cuz of that bitch."

The man was a mess. Almost the entirety of his face was a mass of purple and black bruises. Bandaged and stitched in multiple places; del'Piaz' nose was in an aluminum splint and a metal brace held his newly-fabricated eye socket in place. Most of his front teeth had been kicked-out, and his lips had stitches in half-a-dozen spots. Nevertheless, the worst damage was around his abdomen and groin, which Ms. Nowiki stomped so viciously that he suffered multiple internal injuries – on top of apparently losing a testicle.

Pushing himself to his feet with the aid of an expensive cane, he tottered towards where Lysaker sat. "So, now you come in here hiding behind my brother's name, telling me I can't do nothing about it. Like I ain't a man? As if I need my brother's permission to kill the pinche motherfucker who robbed me and broke my fucking face!?"

"I wouldn't presume to put words in your brother's mouth, but I believe his point was not that your personal revenge was unimportant, but that your value in local operations _superseded_ your revenge," Lysaker tried to explain. "You understand, don't you? How important the upcoming weeks will be?"

It was pointless, however. Not only was del'Piaz loaded with painkillers and alcohol, he was goaded by pride and necessity. Surrounded as he was by high-ranking members of his gang, he could not back down. If he did, he would lose his standing and quite possibly his life.

"Lemme tell you something, asshole; I love my brother, I _respect_ my brother, but it's been a long-ass time since he's been on the street. He used to be a goddamned terror, my brother; people used to shit themself if he walked down the street. It used to be la Pitón would choke the life outta you if you so much's look at him funny – you know that's how he got that name, right? He used to fucking choke people to death with his bare hands.

"Think about that for a second, cabrón; he used to wrap his hands 'round a person's neck and choke their life out. You know what that's like? Eh? It ain't like the trids, no way. It takes time. Minutes. You have to hold your hands there and feel a motherfucker die. You gonna get kicked and hit and scratched and pissed on, but you gotta hold on 'til they dead or you goin' have to do it all over again. _That's_ my brother. Don't you dare fucking tell me la Pitón would let someone steal from him, break his face, and make him look the fool then not kill a motherfucker!"

Lysaker adjusted his glasses and said, "Perhaps when he was younger that is how your brother would have handled the situation, but now he is in a different position. Your brother is responsible fo—"

"My brother _got_ his position because that's how he handled things!" del'Piaz shouted, hurling his cane at Lysaker. "No one dared cross la Pitón; they didn't do it when he ran a corner and they sure as fuck don't do it now. He got shit done. And now I will too."

"I'm afraid I can't let you—"

"Let me?" del'Piaz snickered mockingly. "Look around you, cabrón; if you leave here alive it's because _I_ let _you._ " He fixed Lysaker with a swollen, purple sneer, "You use my brother's name and I – we – talked to you, but that don't mean we gotta do what you say. You think that money was only going into my pocket? Chulos are family. Everyone here was gonna get a taste of that jing, but now they ain't. You gonna tell 'em all its okay to let the man who stole money from their pockets – food from their family's mouth – that we got let it go? For what? The big picture? Fuck that and fuck you. Respect is owed and we gonna collect."

 **Chapter 10**

Calypso exited the bus in the Clyde's Hill neighborhood of Bellevue.

In the recent past, Clyde's Hill was an enviable area to live in. Before the first Crash it was primarily a residential neighborhood, but it slowly transformed into a trendy urban destination for the college students from University Hill. It once boasted a thriving arts and music scene with a number of theatres and clubs catering to the locals. Before long, it became a small counter-culture hotspot; tattoo and mod parlors, head shops, exotic book libraries, magical emporiums, and innumerable coffee shops and cafes were attracted by the liberal atmosphere. Once word spread about the desirability of the neighborhood, new potential residents flooded-in wanting to be associated with the bohemian cultural scene evolving. New people brought new money and the Megacorps followed, bringing more upscale boutique shops and chain stores.

Once the gentrification of the neighborhood was complete, the locals – many of them poor college students who could no longer afford to live in the area – moved out, taking with them the counter-culture movement that was the original draw. As Clyde's Hill area became essentially the same as every other neighborhood, the new residents and their money returned to the metroplex; the majority of the businesses followed suit, and finally, the neighborhood collapsed.

While walking through the small downtown area of Clyde's Hill, Calypso passed any number of boarded-up, derelict, empty, or abandoned buildings before finding a Stuffer Shack that remained open. The ubiquitous convenient store seemed to be both the social and commercial epicenter of the area. The parking lot bustled with degenerates and half-a-dozen gangers, many of whom were already drunk and-or high at four in the afternoon.

The south side of the building abutted a large empty lot that had retrograded into a field of weeds and grass. Trees determined-enough to break through the untended asphalt created little pockets of shade. A small group of what appeared to be the local homeless shuffled about dejectedly; sometimes they talked to each other, sometimes to themselves. The alley on the opposite side of the building had a young man and his two thugish companions selling tiny pink vials of something off the back of a motorcycle. A good number of his clients either came from, or else joined, the group in the store's parking lot.

Calypso clenched her jaw and pursed her lips in frustration.

Spinning around, she looked at her reflection in the window of the boarded-up clothing boutique behind her. She wore a long brown skirt with cream-colored lace trim, tan synth-leather boots with an 8 centimeter heel, a dark orange blouse with an exaggerated plunging neckline and a complicated turquoise necklace that drew the eye down to that same neckline. She even had her long black hair up in a ponytail to show off the big silver hoop earrings her mother gave her on her birthday years ago.

She went through the effort to dress nicely, and she had no intention of ruining the few good clothes she owned that were neither bullet-holed nor alley-stained in a pointless altercation with a group of afternoon drunks.

Digging in her purse, she fished out her commlink. It was an older Sony model that was low-end even when she bought it two years ago, and was now drastically overdue for replacement. Despite the fact that it was a cheaper model, it still had all the necessary amenities needed for day to day life. A small, internal spool held about a meter of retractable fiber-optic cable plus a pair of earbud speakers, and the other end sported a small trideo projector with a two-way directional microphone. A flip-out keyboard hid beneath the main interface, and a tiny 2D video screen took-up the remaining surface area. It was approximately 6 centimeters wide by 15 centimeters long and fit nicely into the palm of her hand. The dinged-up black plastic case even had a few fun little stickers she put on there while out drinking with friends a while back.

Popping the earbuds in, she turned her commlink from 'sleep' mode to 'active'. AROs flooded her vision via meshed contact lenses, and the transparent nano-gel she painted onto her fingernails allowed for the manipulation of the surrounding matrix.

Scrolling through her virtual rolodex until coming to the single entry that required a password to open; Calypso located her hidden and encrypted list of runner contacts.

"Crazy Carl's Taco Heaven, how may I service you?" Silhouette answered.

Calypso ignored his attempt at humor; she found it was best not to indulge him. "Hey, it's Caly; I need to burn a favor."

"I'm sorry I don't know anyone named Caly and the ID on this call says your name is…seriously, wow, you've got to be kidding me…Miss Sally Pounder?" Silhouette choked back a laugh, "And I'm sure I don't know _anyone_ named Sally Pounder, and if I did, I sure wouldn't owe her any favors."

"Please, I'm in a hur-ry!" she whined.

Suddenly, and without warning, Calypso's AR view of the Matrix went dead and **OFFLINE** appeared in the center of her vision written in huge red letters.

"Hey! What the hell happened? Are you kidding me?!" Calypso viciously shook the commlink in her hand and then when that failed to restart it, smacked it against the heel of her left hand. "You asshole!"

Just as abruptly as the commlink cut out, it sprang back to life:

UPDATING SECURITY SUITE

137 MALICIOUS / NON-ESSENTIAL ITEMS FOUND

137 MALICIOUS / NON-ESSENTIAL ITEMS DELETED

SATCOM BUFFER ROUTER INSTALLED

VIRTUAL PERSONAL NETWORK APPLICATION INSTALLED

DUMMY BARRIER INSTALLED

PROXY ROUTER INSTALLED

PROXY ROUTER – DEFAULT SETTING = ACTIVE

FIREWALL REDUNDANCY - DEFAULT SETTING = TRIPLICATE

FIREWALL MODULATION ALGORYTHM – DEFAULT SETTING = NO MAXIMUM

ARO PICTOGRAPHIC SCANNER INSTALLED

ARO PICTOGRAPHIC SCANNER LIBRARY INSTALLED

ARO PICTOGRAPHIC SCANNER LIBRARY UPDATED TO v1.61.778

STEGANOGRAPHIC PACKAGE DOWNLOADED

STEGANOGRAPHIC PACKAGE UPDATED TO v3.16.11

GPS MASK INSTALLED – DEFAULT SETTING = VARIABLE

VR VOICE MODULATOR INSTALLED – DEFAULT SETTING = OFF

1679 SECONDARY SYSTEM OPTIMIZATION RECOMMENDATIONS DETECTED

1679 SECONDARY SYSTEM OPTIMIZATIONS EXECUTED

**BOOTING**BOOTING**BOOTING**

Calyspo's commlink sprang back to life.

"Greetings, Miss Pounder, how may I be of service to you this afternoon?" Silhouette said in an overly chipper tone of voice.

"Did you just hack my 'link, Sil?" Calypso hissed.

"First of all, Miss Pounder, unsolicited intrusion into another person's network executable files is illegal and I never would do such a thing. Secondarily, what you had was not a commlink, but an open book with the words ' _Come in and screw-up my life!_ ' written in giiiiant letters cover to cover. Finally, and most importantly, if you're calling me for a favor, Miss Pounder, it's probably something sketchy, and I don't talk to people, especially strangers like you Miss Pounder, about sketchy stuff over such poorly secured lines," he explained pedantically.

"Will you please stop calling me Miss Pounder!?" she shouted.

Silhouette chuckled impishly; "You betcha, babycakes! So, what's so important that you need to ask my amazing self for a favor?"

"I'm out in Clyde's Hill in front of a convenient store and the whole place is just crawling with dirtbags," Calypso explained, looking at the group amassed outside the Stuffer Shack. "There's at least half a dozen Æsir gangers here plus some junkies and their dealer, and Sil; I'm in my _nice_ clothes!"

"Go…around…them?" Silhouette asked in an overly slow, drawn-out manner.

Calypso stomped her heel and snarled through clenched teeth; "I'm not walking six blocks outta my way just to have the same assholes come at me from a different direction!"

"Okay then, why not just whip-up a spirit or something; why call me?" Silhouette asked. "There's no way you'd actually have a problem dealing with some local punks."

"I told you, I'm in my nice clothes and I have somewhere important to go and I don't want to look like shit when I get there," she said. A warm mass of anger and frustration was slowly starting to boil in her chest.

"You are lookin' pretty swanky right now, if I do say so myself," Silhouette told her. "Though if you were _my_ daughter there's no way I'd let you leave the house wearing that blouse. But you're not my daughter, sooo…you need a ride little girl? I have candy!"

"Wait…where are you?" Calypso asked, crossing her arms to shield the view of her breasts. Without thinking, she turned and looked around for his physical form – and then chastised herself for being a fool for doing so.

"Aww! You're no fun!" Silhouette chided while laughing.

Squeezing her commlink hard enough to make the plastic creak, Calypso shouted, "Where are you?!"

"You see that fine upstanding gentleman across the street who's been eyeballin' your goodies for the last coupla minutes?" he asked.

Calypso glared at the cluster of gangers, and sure enough; one of them was lasciviously staring at her. He was synth-leather-clad and wore his blond hair and beard long and braided like most of the Æsir. Additionally, like the majority of the Æsir gang, he'd tattooed his face with old Norse runic nano-tattoos in iridescent blue and green. Unlike the rest of his group, however, held a bottle of something in his left hand and had his right hand stuffed suspiciously-deep into the front pocket of his pants.

Calypso involuntarily grimaced. "Ugh. Nasty"

"Yup, that's the guy. I spring-boarded off your 'link and hijacked his eyes' feed," Silhouette told her.

"Gross." She felt as though she could feel his eyes touching her even from a distance. The fact that the man kept licking his lips made it doubly-worse.

"Ya know, I think you made the right choice calling me. These guys're surprisingly wired. Even you might have had trouble takin' on all six at once." Silhouette's voice was softer and sounded distracted. "If it's really that important I can call Mercy; she lives right around there. Actually, she lives really close. I'm sure you guys could work somethin' out."

"Um, n-no. Thanks. I'll take care of it myself. Don't worry about it, Sil," Calypso could feel a slight flush rising in her neck and cheeks, "I'll talk to you later. Thanks for the free 'link check-up."

"Yeah, um hey, no sweat. You sure you don't want me to give you a hand?" he asked, sounding confused. "Like, not ten seconds ago you were chip-sure you needed help and now you're rushin' me out the door."

"Yeah, it's fine. I just remembered something is all. Bye." Calypso cut the call's feed and the conversation clicked out. She removed the earbuds, put her commlink back in her purse and returned it to 'sleep' mode – that way it'd continue broadcasting necessary information but no longer distractingly cloud her vision.

Feeling the heat of embarrassment and frustration in the pit of her gut, Calypso decided to deal with the situation herself and worry about her appearance if and when it actually became an issue.

Allowing her mundane eyes to lose focus and opening her inner-sight, Calypso peeked into the astral plane. The harsh sun disappeared and the sky was a mélange of soft greens and blues, fading to purple and eventually black up into the stratosphere. Where the dilapidation of Clyde's Hill was depressing before, now it was merely bland; the buildings, roads, signs, and ubiquitously banal objects of civilization rendered into a photonegative of greys and blacks.

Amongst the knot of Æsir gangers, four of the six were cybernetically augmented. A short, pudgy man and the group's sole female were the only two which did not have the tell-tale blackened 'dead spots' in their auras. It would take too long to assense them all individually, however, and she was in a hurry.

Stretching out her mind, Calypso felt for the spirit that was ever-present, yet also so very elusive: the Sea Witch. Terrifying and beautiful, nurturing and cruel, provider and destroyer, warrior and healer; the Sea Witch was an amazingly powerful spirit who reigned over thousands of lesser spirits of the sky and sea. She was also the spirit to whom Calypso was inexorably bound.

Having no desire to speak with the Witch herself, but instead borrow her authority to contact and command a subordinate spirit; Calypso formed a tether of mana and drew to herself an ocean spirit.

It appeared before her shaped as a translucent female human composed of shimmering blue-green water. Below the knees, however, the elemental's legs fused together forming a solid trunk of heaving water. Innocuous fish spirits swam blithely through its body, flashing in the sun while they curiously peeked out on the material plane.

" _Why have you called me to such a dismal place_?" the spirit enquired telepathically.

" _Protect me from physical harm as I perform my task and then you may return_." Calypso's telepathic speech was powerful, commanding, and authoritative.

The spirit moved in close for an uncomfortable second, as though it were evaluating her. The moist air of the sea rolled off of it in waves, causing her to sweat. Drawing herself up and flexing her inner power, Calypso exuded confidence and strength in a brilliant radiance. The spirit's aggressive posture diminished and she knew she had seized control.

" _As you wish_." It was difficult to know for certain, but it appeared as if the spirit smiled.

Reluctantly, she returned her sight to the mundane world.

Smoothing her clothes, Calypso strolled across the street putting on her best 'don't fuck with me' strut.

It failed.

A soon as she started walking in the gangers' direction, the man who had been so enthusiastically watching her leaned in to the Æsir standing to his right, said something that elicited a laugh, handed-off his bottle and then sauntered out to intercept Calypso in the street.

"HeAey, baby; you lost? I never seen you here before. You need someone show you 'round, maybe spend some time with?"

"Thank you, no." Calypso continued to walk, neither slowing her pace nor making eye contact.

"Aw, don't be like that baby! Why don't you and me go have us some fun?" The ganger moved to block her path and reached out to grab Calypso's wrist. His mouth curled in a sneer, he reeked of cheap swill and rancid sweat. The Æsir remaining in the lot hooted and shouted their encouragement.

"I said buzz, and if you were smart you'd take the hint and walk away before something bad happens," she warned him.

The ganger clamped down on Calypso's wrist, hard. "Listen, slitch I don't think you fuc—"

Materializing, the elemental sinuously lashed out at the ganger. A flail-like fist of seawater crashed into the man's chest and propelled him backward several meters. Tumbling end-over-end across the street, his battered form came to rest in a ragged, gasping heap at the feet of his companions.

Ignoring the incapacitated Æsir, the spirit surged into battle with his stunned companions.

The remaining gangers stared in shock at the surging incarnation of an angry sea and stumbled back. The bums in the lot panicked and scattered, as did the dealer and his cronies in the alley.

Silhouette was right, though. The Æsir recovered preternaturally fast; three, emboldened by stimulants and stupidity, fruitlessly attacked the spirit with fists, knives, and even a rusty pipe. The remaining two drew firearms.

A blonde elf nimbly hopped back out of the spirit's reach and pointed a machine pistol at Calypso. The barrel of the weapon swayed wildly, whether from inebriation or adrenaline was unclear, but the threat remained very real. The elf fired off a burst of bullets that flew wide of their mark, destroying the window where Calypso admired her reflection just a moment ago. The elf looked confused, but was already recovering from the weapon's significant recoil and knelt to better aim.

The second Æsir with a drawn firearm was a burly human with a shaven head and long dark beard braided into forks. He fired his Predator directly into the heart of the spirit and blasted away several large chunks of its aqueous body. Calypso felt the spirit's strength and material integrity diminish marginally; if it continued to take such serious damage it would eventually discorporate.

Entreating a stream of mana to coalesce in the palm of her hand, Calypso willed it to transform into a roiling orb of water. It flew from her outstretched fingertip like a teardrop comet, leaving a trail of sparkling blue mist hanging in the air as it sped towards its target. The orb struck the Æsir attacking the spirit in his lower abdomen and groin. The squat man doubled over and then violently splayed backwards as the sphere detonated. Thousands of gallons of seawater blasted outwards like storm-driven surf.

Two more of the Æsir reeled under the wave. A homely blond girl with braided pig-tails stumbled back, dropping the short, sharpened metal pipe she swung in her small fist. In the moment between imbalance and recovery, the spirit lashed out with a whip of water, catching the girl along the jaw. The snap of broken bones was audible. The blonde collapsed; blood and broken teeth pooled on the pavement around her skewed jaw.

" _Don't kill them,"_ Calyspo instructed the spirit.

" _As you wish, but it is your error to choose not to do so."_

"Jeanie!" the ganger with the pistol shouted, watching in horror as the spirit loomed over the disabled woman.

That momentary distraction was enough of an opening for the spirit to strike him in his gun arm, shattering it and knocking the weapon from his grasp. Just as the ganger looked up, terror paralyzing him, the spirit struck a second time; bearing him aloft, it then slammed his flailing body into the concrete with bone-crushing force.

Of the two remaining Æsir, only the elf and a pot-bellied thug in an open leather vest remained. The ganger in the vest scurried away on all fours, heading for the alley and wailing like a child. The elf, however, used the time it'd taken for Calypso to create and launch her spell to kneel and aim his weapon properly.

Calypso cursed, breaking into a stuttering sprint for the storefront across the street. She drew in more mana in order to defend herself from the hail of bullets she knew was only microseconds from ripping into her flesh. The mana was slow in coming though; the summoning of the spirit and the subsequent spell in rapid succession tired her considerably.

It was too late. The spirit was unable to traverse the distance between itself and the gunman before he fired, and the mana was too slow in building to allow her to defend herself from getting shot. Calypso craned her neck as she ran, watching as the barrel of the gun paced her steps and then - nothing.

"Drek!" The elf jumped to his feet and pulled the trigger a second and third time with the same result.

The spirit barreled toward the confused Æsir ganger.

"Nononononononono!" he shouted, dropping his gun while shielding his face and falling to his knees in bladder-draining terror.

" _Wait,_ " Calypso mentally instructed the spirit. Walking over to the prostrate elf, she retrieved his gun off of the pavement. It was one of the new Ares Crusader II machine pistols, and this one had been retrofitted with a biometric trigger-locking system. Calypso ejected the clip and investigated the slide, neither seemed jammed and the weapon had plenty of ammunition. Gripping the pistol, she replaced the clip and then nearly dropped it when the biometric lock _beeped_ permissively and auto-chambered the next round for her.

"Please, please don't kill me!" the elf blubbered, "We were just having some fun and Dougie, you know sometimes when he's all blitzed-up he can go too far. We didn't mean nothin' by it, I swear!"

"I'm not going to kill you. But maybe next time when you assholes see a beautiful young woman who's _obviously_ not interested in your particular brand of bullshit crossing the street, you should _just leave her the fuck alone!_ "

Calypso viciously kicked the elf in the face as a means of punctuation – and broke the heel on her boot.

 **Chapter 11**

The club's music pounded at just the right rhythm and volume to let Silhouette really enjoy the experience.

Strategically placed, dark blue lights provided enough illumination to navigate by, but not so much as to really be able see with. Pseudo-anonymity was the intent. If a person wanted to mingle and interact they certainly could, but you could just as easily sit back and watch from the darkness.

The whole room appeared to be a thirty meter cube, but relevancies like space and distance were imaginary.

Each of the six interior planar surfaces was a unique lounge area. Every lounge's design had a different theme; though they all had countless real or imagined styles of couches, chairs, recliners and beds arranged in bizarre patterns that ignored the laws of physics. There was a bevy of different geographic features as well, some of which were functional, like the orbiting pools of various liquids; others were more cosmetic in nature, like the thousands of fireflies on the 'Midsummer Night's Dream' plane.

Silhouette relaxed on the 'Arabian Nights' inspired plane. The ground underfoot was fine white sand still slightly warm, as though the sun just recently set. Nestled in a deep divan beneath arching date palms, he glimpsed outlines of faceless groups gathered around hookahs and low tables piled with exotic delicacies; they sprawled on ancient Persian rugs and even lounged on reed rafts floating lazily on a winding river passing overhead. Scattered in amongst the guests, servants and dancers of both sexes – and all metatypes – made themselves available in every possible way.

Floating in the open center of the cube, the transparent dance floor was a 20 by 20 meter, two-dimensional plane. Dancers looked up or down at each other; they passed through the floor to switch partners and created wild, hard to fathom conglomerations of gyrating bodies. It was a flawlessly executed symbiotic relationship between voyeurs and exhibitionists.

Typically, 'Black Room' parties like the current one turned out to be something that he had more fun finding and getting access to, than actually participating in. This one, however, was expertly coded. It was secret, stable, well-thought-out, and most of all, fun.

A few of the previous parties he managed to find had been disastrous. Some of them demonstrated overly weird or perverse themes that were – at best – discomfiting; a few were downright vile. However, the majority of bad parties revolved around reality fights that made the motif merge and flicker, open backdoor invites, lack of administration or moderators, which resulted in all-out brawls between ego-starved hackers, or on rare occasions, the presence undercover operatives on intelligence gathering assignments.

The party-goers themselves were of a higher class than usually came to these sorts of events, too. So far he had seen only a few off-the-rack persona icons, and those were so heavily modified that they scarcely counted. Barely clothed anthropomorphized animals danced with steampunk ninjas, fantasy creatures groped and pawed at tweaked-out futuristic superheroes, gender-swapped anime characters ground on top of robots, and any number of 'concept' icons did the same to all of the above in a VR bacchanalia.

The only icons present that actually looked like people were the staff. The irony being; in reality they were all expertly-coded virtual intelligence constructs.

A subconscious prodding indicated that Silhouette had an incoming call. It was from an unknown ID, but that was hardly anything outside the ordinary, especially considering the people with which he frequently associated. He debated letting it go to voicemail. Even if it was a now-or-never job offer, his accounts were deep enough in the black that he could afford to let one gig slide. Though, at his level of the food chain it was probably not too smart to let an opportunity slip through his fingers. However, chances were good that it was not some sort of once in a lifetime offer.

Silhouette groaned – though, it was more of a mental acquiescence than an actual noise.

He moved to the nearest of the dancing girl constructs. She appeared as a busty, violet-haired elf approximately 170 centimeters tall. With the exception of a see-through sarong and some Middle Eastern-style jewelry, she was totally nude.

As he approached, she reached out and embraced his icon, pressing herself against him.

"How may I serve you, sir?" she asked. That one question, and its corresponding glance, carried a heart-stopping dose of coquettish innuendo. Silhouette's icon was a metahuman-shaped construct comprised of thousands of swirling geometric patterns, which precluded it from showing a physiological response. He knew that his meat body, however, was most certainly showing a reaction to the elf's embrace.

"I just wanted to pass on my compliments to the admins is all." Silhouette attached a brief text document to the VI elf. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir! Please come again!" the elf exclaimed, jumping up and down while waving.

Stepping out of the 'Black Room' host and onto London's proprietary grid, Silhouette did a quick search to locate the local branch of NeoNet's main trunk datastream. Of the thousands of brilliant, glowing superhighways streaking above London's foggy neo-Victorian architecture, it was one of the largest.

The incoming call was on its third ring.

"Crazy Carl's Taco Heaven, how may I service you?" he answered. At the same time he dispatched a tracking program into the datastream to locate the source of the call. A great black bloodhound streaked skyward into the perpetually twilit sky of the London grid and disappeared into the stream.

"Hey, it's Caly; I need to burn a favor." Silhouette's speech and text conversion program swirled around his icon's head.

The program resembled a small wriggly fish with bright yellow scales and purple fins. The little program translated vocal inflections and even managed to transmit sarcasm. Most people never even knew when someone in VR used one, though it was the best way for a person to vocally communicate with someone meatside.

The tracker program relayed its results, displaying both GPS coordinates and Emerald City grid provider triangulation data.

The small black and purple-striped skunk icon of his data masking program wandered the virtual landscape in front of the now-invisible 'Black Room' host node. The program would suss out every byte of data pertaining to his presence there and corrupt it, making it impossible to track his movements.

Silhouette hopped into the datastream and felt its beautiful, calming embrace as it surrounded him. Zetabytes of data buffeted him, and it felt like being in touch with the world.

Following the tracker's directions, he routed through dozens of nodes before he arrived at the caller's commlink.

The trip from London to Seattle's Emerald City grid took eleven nanoseconds. He already missed being in the stream.

Reaching out and touching the mermaid icon of Calypso's commlink, Silhouette instantaneously accessed all of its public information. Not just the things people thought were public, like their name, SIN, address, like and dislikes, etc. Everything. Reams of data. Every place the commlink had ever been and everything that was ever purchased with it; every ARO it interacted with got catalogued alongside every ARO set as spam, RFID catalogues, every advertisement, and the commlink serial number and registrant of every commlink ever to come within signal range of this one.

If he really wanted to; if he had the time and inclination, Silhouette could reconstruct Calypso's life from the moment she purchased her commlink to that exact second.

Analyzing her software configuration caused Silhouette to grind his virtual teeth in frustration. The commlink remained set to the factory defaults.

Simply digging into the icon, Silhouette forced it apart. The firewall was rent asunder and the node opened; its security needed to reset after large chunks of its code became corrupt.

At the same time, he created a direct connection to a supplemental commlink that he kept at his apartment. Stringing the two together via a gossamer-thin datastream created a distortion; the node didn't move from its location on the grid, but at the same time was here within reach. Opening the node with the 64 character PIN revealed the programmed reality inside.

Designed to resemble an 18th century manor house drawing room, the commlink's primary node was warm and inviting. Oiled and lacquered hardwoods, brass fittings, deep, hand-stitched carpets, tapestries, paintings, silver accoutrements; his icon fittingly displayed a red smoking jacket, pipe, fez, and monocle to fit with the ambiance. He even had a virtual pet dog sleeping in front of the drawing room's virtual fire.

"I'm sorry I don't know anyone named Caly and the ID on this call says your name is…seriously, wow, you've _got_ to be kidding me…Miss Sally Pounder? And I'm sure I don't know anyone named Sally Pounder and if I did, I sure wouldn't owe her any favors," he responded, chuckling.

Without moving, the door to the library appeared set into the wall as if it had always been there. A different 64 character PIN opened the node, represented by simply turning the knob icon. The library was a cylindrical room ringed with shelves of book icons seemingly kilometers in height. The center of the room had a single plush armchair and an end table topped with a crystal brandy decanter and snifter.

As he approached, the separate bookcase shelves rotated, with individual books rapidly moving between tiers. They came to rest as his fingers touched the shelves. The book Silhouette removed was, "Neophyte Suite # 3: How to avoid jail and other practical solutions to everyday problems." He tugged at both ends of the book until it split into two identical copies. He then replaced the original and took the copy with him as he logged out.

Severing the connecting datastream caused the distortion to wink out of existence. Silhouette was back standing in front of the icon representing Calypso's commlink; book in-hand he stepped inside.

The commlink's programmed reality was a set to a stock 'Day at the Beach' scenario. The sun was high in the sky and it was warm, but not too hot thanks to the ocean breeze. Surf rhythmically pounded just a short distance down the beach, flavoring the air with a salty tang and providing a relaxing background noise. They had even somehow managed to make the sound of gulls quaint instead of obnoxious.

The main interface icon, sculpted to resemble a beach lounger, sat beneath a large mint-green parasol. On one side leaned an overstuffed rattan beach bag and an open cooler, while on the side other was a small folding table stacked with knick-knack icons.

An over-large fiddler crab sitting motionless in the sand represented the commlink's firewall program. Silhouette's brute force entry forced it crash and it was currently in the process of re-booting.

Walking over to it, Silhouette held out his hand; an old-timey sleeping cap – complete with pompom at its tip – appeared floating in the air above his supine palm. Purple with little randomly-placed kokopelli figures stitched into the material, it was a hibernate program. Designed to instigate a memory dump, it prevented a crashed program from rebooting for a predetermined amount of time.

Twisting the pompom until the little timer floating above it read 120ms; Silhouette dropped the cap on the crab and watched as it froze mid-startup.

Some distance away from the chair, additional icons poked out of the sand at odd angles and without apparent organization. Quick analysis revealed that they were the icons Silhouette wanted to find. A moment spent probing the beach detritus yielded favorable results.

An old wooden treasure chest sat buried up to its lid in the sand. Prying it open revealed a neat row of manila folders inside, each meticulously labeled. Vigorously shaking the book he held forced it to blur and reconfigure itself to look similar to the files in the chest. Silhouette then placed what were analogous to his thumb, index and middle fingers on the face of the folder and twisted as if turning the dial on an old safe. A blinking digital readout appeared in the corner of the file. Silhouette continued twisting until it read 30ms.

His command program, which resembled a black baboon wearing a tiny golden crown, snatched the file from his hand and leapt into the chest. The lid slammed behind it. As he prepared to step out of the commlink's primary node, Silhouette paused briefly; using his finger, he carved a series of small black stick figures in the rear corner of the mermaid icon then stepped out.

"Please, I'm in a hur-ry!"

**OFFLINE** Appeared in bright red letters above the greyed-out icon of Calypso's commlink. Silhouette stood there for a moment until **BOOTING**BOOTING**BOOTING** appeared above the mermaid icon and its color returned to normal.

Calyspo's commlink sprang back to life.

"Greetings, Miss Pounder, how may I be of service to you this afternoon?"

"Did you just hack my 'link, Sil?" Calypso hissed.

"First of all, Miss Pounder, unsolicited intrusion into another person's network executable files is illegal and I never would do such a thing. Secondarily, what you had was not a commlink, but an open book with the words ' _Come in and screw-up my life!'_ written in giiiiant letters cover to cover. Finally, and most importantly, if you're calling me for a favor, Miss Pounder, it's probably something sketchy, and I don't talk to people, especially strangers like you Miss Pounder, about sketchy stuff over such poorly secured lines."

"Will you please stop calling me Miss Pounder!?"

"You betcha, babycakes! So, what's so important that you need to ask my amazing self a favor?" Silhouette asked impishly.

"I'm out in Clyde's Hill in front of a convenient store and the whole place is just crawling with dirtbags. There's at least half a dozen Æsir gangers here plus some junkies and their dealer, and Sil; I'm in my _nice_ clothes!"

Scanning the local matrix topography revealed surprisingly few icons, especially considering the location's proximity to the swanky Bellevue area. When the neighborhood collapsed and the residents left, they took most everything with them. What remained got scavenged or vandalized, leaving only a few heavily-encrypted infrastructure-related nodes behind.

A quick inventory of the local landscape showed eight unaffiliated node signatures, the local Stuffer Shack's localized host, and a temporary virtual host node all at 'street level'. Above those hovered icons for the department of water and power, the Grid Guide's GPS routers, Lone Star's – now Knight Errant's ─ communication relays, sensors, and drone dispatchers; Seattle's tourism board's ARO guide remained intact too, but everything else of any worth was long gone.

"Go…around…them?" Silhouette suggested after taking stock of the local desolation of the matrix.

Quickly dispatching an analysis raven to the Stuffer Shack's node; Silhouette reached out to touch the temporary host node, accessing its public information. Its iconographic representation was the Æsir street gang's symbol – a pair of upward-facing crossed broadswords over a field of blue. The temporary host contained fourteen individual nodes, all commlink PANs. Six of which were geographically relevant according to their GP address.

The virtual host's security was poor. Like most constructs of that type, it was in-use as an impromptu chat-room. And like most people who wanted to save time, the originator simply sent an invite to everyone on a predetermined contact list. It was probably imaginatively named: Gang.

"I'm not walking six blocks outta my way just to have the same assholes come at me from a different direction," Calypso snapped in response.

Silhouette picked a name at random from the list; one of those who received a perfunctory invitation but did not respond. A quickly dispatched bloodhound tracker returned with the unrequited invitee's public commlink information. Using that identification, he opened the temporary virtual host but did not enter. Instead, he created a datastream thread and extended one end into the breached node. The other end he pitched through the matrix to connect to the commlink he kept in his apartment.

The connection made, Silhouette called out to the Resonance. Every piece of information known to mankind, hundreds of billions of machines' worth of computing power, countless interlinked metahuman intelligences, unknown numbers of hidden AI's and myriad mysterious presences that science had not been able to identify combined together to make an unfathomable gestalt superego. He distilled an infinitesimally tiny portion of that consciousness down in the form of a sprite.

The sprite's compiled shape was that of a midnight-plumed, great horned owl. Its huge amethyst eyes blinking, it managed to somehow look at him with both fondness and condescension simultaneously.

"Take care of that for me, would ya please?" Sprites were the individual, living cells within the body of the Resonance. Unlike the programed complex forms he spun together, they were not blindly subservient. They had intelligence and personality, even if it was difficult to comprehend sometimes. And as such, he tried to treat them with respect, even if that meant nothing more than asking politely for a service.

Perched on the datastream, the sprite cooed softly to itself while it pirated data from the virtual host and its members. Disseminating the bulk data to the commlink's storage and the pertinent highlights to Silhouette seemed to satisfy it. It hooted and paced, flapping its wings; occasionally it pecked at the datastream to unknot some piece of non-compliant code. It appeared to enjoy itself all the while.

Meanwhile, the raven sent back a steady stream of data. It never breached security, but instead it fastidiously probed every corner of an icon. Files hidden within directory mazes, the daisy-chain of slaved devices, intentionally mislabeled directories, obscured executable files and registry anomalies; it laid-bare the minutia of even the most obstinately twisted node. The more time had to run its function, the more it would discover. And there was always more to discover.

Most of it was not pertinent: the entire catalogue of products carried by this store, the current stock of said products, pricing and maintenance schedules for utilities, employee roster and schedules, non-encrypted payroll information, delivery timetables, ad infinitum.

What did interest Silhouette, however, was that this store's network had its own agent program. In addition to controlling all the basic store functions, it also controlled several neurofoam sprayers – both inside the premises, and out. Since this particular location was in such a poor neighborhood, there was also an older model Doberman attack drone squirreled away somewhere inside.

"Why not just whip up a spirit or something; why call me?" Silhouette asked. "There's no way you'd actually have a problem dealing with some local punks."

"I told you, I'm in my nice clothes and I have somewhere important to go and I don't want to look like shit when I get there."

The sprite continued data-mining the Æsir network, moving far beyond the icons in the temporary virtual host. If left to its own devices it would continue ad nausuem, eventually plundering the gangers' secondary and even tertiary affiliations. At some point it would exhaust the supply of relevant or interesting information. When that happened, it would travel down the datastream to the commlink and catalogue, organize, and prioritize the information it had pilfered.

Threading together a strong stealth program, in this case represented by a small chameleon icon that crawled onto his shoulder; Silhouette entered the temporary virtual host's node with the stolen identification.

The programmed reality inside the node had been sculpted to resemble a Norse longhouse. Four long tables flanked with wooden benches and stacked with virtual food and liquor took up most of the space. An outsized fire pit dominated the very center of the room, and Viking-inspired decorations hung from the walls. An empty throne topping a raised dais completed the longhouse motif stolen from any one of countless Beowulf remakes.

Of the fourteen icons present, only four were active – proven by their significantly higher color saturation and icon resolution. That meant the remaining ten were present via augmented reality only, and were probably using the node as a chat room.

Thanks to the stealth chameleon, Silhouette blended seamlessly into the background architecture of the node. His icon was currently indistinguishable from parts of a wall and a portion of an old tapestry. That allowed him to focus on a group of six dim, immobile icons seated at one of the tables. Cursory interaction paired each icon with corresponding data mined by the owl sprite.

As he analyzed each in-turn, Silhouette was mildly surprised by the amount of slaved cyberware four of the six icons possessed. From what he understood, the Æsir were a bottom tier neighborhood gang. Most other gangs of that caliber were lucky if even a few of their members could afford fourth-hand used parts.

Of the four present, three had cybereye implants. He chose one of those three at random.

The commlink and everything slaved to it belonged to Douglas Bolick. Silhouette felt around the edges of the icon for weak spots unprotected or overlooked by the firewall. Finding several, he injected lines of suspicious looking junk code, forcing the firewall to request update information from the manufacturer. Piggybacking himself a spoofed exception alongside the incoming firewall update gave Silhouette unfettered access to the commlink.

Opening the commlink node revealed all the subordinate nodes which directly interacted with the device, though they were not all slaved to it. A quick scan located the encrypted node for Douglas Bolick's cybereyes. Gripping the eyeball icon in both hands, Silhouette simply crushed it; effectively crashing both the device's firewall and the error reporting service.

Passing a datastream through the broken eyeball icon and attaching it to the feed running between the eye and the brain gave Silhouette an identical video stream. It appeared above his icon's head in the form of a giant floating 2D video screen. A zoomed-in view of Calypso took-up the entire frame – more specifically, the portion between her neck and navel.

"You are lookin' pretty swanky right now, if I do say so myself. Though if you were _my_ daughter there's no way I'd let you leave the house wearing that blouse. But you're not my daughter, sooo…you need a ride little girl? I have candy!"

"Wait…where are you?" Calypso asked, crossing her arms over her chest to shield the view of her breasts.

"Aww! You're no fun!"

"Where are you?!"

"You see that fine upstanding gentleman across the street who's been eyeballin' your goodies for the last coupla minutes?"

Silhouette certainly understood the ganger's leering. Calypso was a full-blooded Yakama and seemed to have won her people's genetic lottery. Caramel skin, almond-shaped hazel eyes, a strong nose with an arrow straight bridge, long black hair and delicate features; not to mention her over-generous endowment in other areas. On top of that, as a shaman, her looks were assuredly genuine and not the result of surgery or augmentation. In an era where a few nuyen and some free time under the knife can make anyone beautiful, nature-made beauty was at a premium.

Silhouette was unable to tell what Calypso could see, because the owner of his pirated eyes' focus was solely aimed at her breasts to the exclusion of all else.

"Ugh. Nasty"

"Yup, that's the guy. I spring-boarded off your 'link and hijacked his eyes' feed."

"Gross."

"Ya know, I think you made the right choice calling me. These guys're surprisingly wired. Even you might have had trouble takin' on all six at once. If it's really that important I can call Mercy; she lives right around there. Actually, she lives really close. I'm sure you guys could work somethin' out."

"Um, n…no. Thanks. I'll take care of it myself. Don't worry about it, Sil," Calypso stammered. "I'll talk to you later. Thanks for the free 'link check-up."

"Yeah, um hey, no sweat. You sure you don't want me to give you a hand? Like not ten seconds ago you were chip-sure you needed help and now you're rushin' me out the door."

"Yeah, it's fine. I just remembered something is all. Bye."

Silhouette released both the datastreams he had active, as well as the owl sprite still contentedly mining away.

He found himself in a familiar, yet consistently frustrating position. Not only was it his role on their team, but the acquisition, manipulation, and exploration of data was also the great joy of his life. With the exception of a few dreary hours a day spent eating, sleeping, attending to hygiene, and exercising just enough to keep his meat body reasonably healthy; he spent his entire life immersed in the Matrix. That meant that he frequently found himself in the situation of being privy to knowledge those around him were not.

Was it his responsibility to honor Calypso's wishes and leave the situation alone, or should he, as a comrade, assist her without her knowledge and consent?

As he had before, and likely would again, Silhouette relied upon the adage: Angry friends are better than dead ones.

Working quickly he ripped into the remaining three Æsir. He altered muscle servo response locations, activated a recall warning on a wired reflex system's processor chips, overloaded a balance amplifying inner-ear mod, and finally, tricked a smart gun into believing it had been legally sold so it would reset its biometric locks.

 **Chapter 12**

The triple-axle box truck pulled in front of a crumbling fourteen-story office building.

Buildings in Seattle quickly succumb to the elements if they are no longer regularly maintained. This one was a prime example. Acid rain pitted the faux marble façade, causing the large blocks to crack and split. Moisture then seeped into the fissures, freezing and accelerating the process during the winter months. The frequent expansion and contraction weakened the concrete exterior, thereby causing large chunks of masonry to break loose, littering the sidewalk below with debris. Animals, mostly birds and small rodents, took shelter in the hollow spaces, pock-marking the face of the building and staining it with their droppings.

Wind, hail, and rock-throwing locals shattered almost all the visible windows. Thirteen floors' worth of broken glass was either swept into piles by rainwater or else crushed into a sparkling grit that wedged itself into every available crevice. Only the darkened, bullet-resistant windows of the 14th floor executive offices remained intact.

Without the photochromic windows, which would have hidden the building's interior from the street, the destruction inside was visible to the world. At one point, upscale shops and restaurants occupied the ground floor of the building. Now it was a disaster. Like the rest of Clyde's Hill, vandals defaced the building and destroyed everything of value that they were unable to carry away to pawn.

The walls were bare, torn down to the studs by scavengers looking to strip the pipes and wiring for salvage. They claimed anything that held even the slightest value; they stole the fixtures, ripped out the carpet, pried the tile loose, and even absconded with the lightbulbs.

Larger animals moved into the cavernous space in addition to the abundant populations of rodents and birds. There was evidence of feral dogs, bats, water snakes, devil rats, and of course, people.

"You two stay here and look after the truck with Primo. The rest unload what's on the list and then come upstairs." Barbarossa pointed at the small Asian woman sitting cross-legged on the truck's hood. "Yukihime, you come with me."

Nodding wordlessly, she hopped down. Barbarossa watched the athletic display appreciatively, impressed by her lithe grace.

Though she was definitely not his type, he considered the young woman reasonably attractive. At 161 centimeters she was a touch shorter than phenotypical norms for Asian women, though still well-within the spread of statistical variations. She possessed a dusky golden complexion, oval face with high cheekbones, modest chin, and a small, slightly upturned nose.

Narrow epicanthic folds at the corner of her eyes and a tight-lipped pout made her look perpetually churlish and aloof; an impression her personality did nothing to dispel. In truth, Barbarossa had not once seen her smile since she had started working as his bodyguard – though he was unsure if that was a factor of her disposition or displeasure at her current work environment.

She kept the rear and both sides of her head shaved smooth. Intricate, luminescent blue snowflake tattoos covered the shaved areas and continued down her neck and back. From the unshaven portion atop her head she grew an impressive ponytail which reached down past her buttocks. It was always meticulously braided, typically with a pair of bright red tassels woven into the tip.

Barbarossa knew for a fact that each of the tassels concealed an eight ounce steel weight that Yukihime was quite proficient in using as a weapon.

He found the way she dressed distasteful; though, in truth, he felt that way about most young women. With the exception of a dangling necklace-styled commlink and a pair of yellow-lensed AR goggles that she rarely put on; Yukihime never wore any jewelry. He found her lack of accoutrements refreshing; most women, he felt, seemed to feel it necessary to drape themselves in layers of accessories and ended up resembling a walking storefront.

Instead, it was her choice of actual clothing that he found objectionable: black, lace-up vinyl boots, thigh-high black stockings, red leather skirt, a black vinyl belt with a number of straps and buckles, red midriff-bearing strapless tube-top and a tight-fitting, three-quarter length black leather jacket that he had never once seen zipped-up. Thankfully, at least for modesty's sake, she also wore a pair of spandex shorts under the skirt to decriminalize her acrobatic stunts.

Although she was not a walking storefront, Yukihime was, however, a walking arsenal. She kept a thick-hafted Japanese jutte dangling from a belt cord on her right side. Barbarosa knew for a fact that the fingerless gloves she wore were actually expertly-disguised sap gauntlets. And strapped across the small of her back she carried a traditional Japanese daisho set that consisted of a wakizashi and tanto.

The bandolier on her right leg held several additional clips for the new SCK 100 she carried; and the one on her left leg contained a random assortment of useful combat implements. A holdout pistol and several throwing spikes were cleverly secreted somewhere within her jacket, as were several grenades – though Barbarossa had never been able to determine how or where. Even the soles of her shoes were disturbingly lethal, fabricated as they were from reinforced flexsteel.

She also chewed an unhealthy amount of stimulant gum. Cherry flavored, according to the ever-present olfactory cloud that followed her around.

Not bothering to look at him as she walked by, Yukihime headed for the hole in the building that had once been the automatic doors. Following closely behind, Barbarossa could hear the incessant gum-popping and the _'tink, tink, tink'_ of her shoes on the pavement. He also heard the sound of her chambering a round into the submachinegun.

Despite it being 4:15pm on a clear day, the inside of the building was dark.

Light from the broken windows created a hem of illumination around the structure's interior edge, but it diminished the farther inside one went. Large areas of the building's superstructure were disintegrating, causing substantial sections of the upper floors to collapse. Multiple floors collapsed under the accumulated weight of the higher levels' rubble, allowing beams of light to pierce into the building's heart.

Moisture, decomposition, garbage, animal waste, and the filtered light from the missing floors above meant that the islands of light were also islands of life. Wherever the largest beams of light lingered; patches of weeds and even diminutive trees and bushes grew. Every other surface dripped with mold and grew any number of unidentifiable fungi in pools of stagnant rainwater.

A skull and bones warning flashed in Barbarossa's vision. Under normal circumstances the alert would indicate exposure to an airborne toxin. But in this particular situation, his monitoring software was misinterpreting the astronomically-high spore count as a chemical agent. Switching on his tracheal filter quickly alleviated the problem.

The filter provided clean air by removing particulates larger than half a micrometer in diameter; though the sifting process reduced overall airflow by one quarter. It seemed a small price to pay to avoid inhaling the slimy air.

Yukihime, however, had significant problems. Not equipped with any form of respiratory filter, she developed a hacking cough moments after entering the building. As a means of coping, she ripped off a section of her right stocking to use as an ersatz surgical mask.

Opening the notepad section of his commlink, Barbarossa wrote a short memo reminding himself to administer an anti-fungal regimen to Yukihime after today's business was complete.

The two of them navigated the spoiled wreckage of the building's interior. Barbarossa's cybereyes handled the darkness with ease. His bodyguard, however, needed to use the under-barrel flashlight on her SCK to safely traverse the piles of rotten, moldering detritus. Their destination was the freight elevators in the rear of the building. Getting there required crossing through the entire width of the building – approximately 110 meters of sewer-slick filth and debris. He could hear the urban wildlife that called the building home skittering beyond the range of Yukihime's light.

Having tied the piece of stocking over her mouth, Yukihime used her free hand to scoop-up and hurl small pieces of rubble into the darkness.

"Devil rats," she said as means of explanation, "You cannot let them cluster together, especially if they are parts of the same pack. If they gain confidence they will attack." Her flawless, but somewhat rigid, English was indicative of someone who learned the language elsewhere – in her case, Japan. "The trick is to frighten them, but never injure them."

"Why can't you injure them?" Barbarossa asked, genuinely curious.

"They kill anything weaker than themselves, other devils included. If you injure one, the others will tear it apart. Once they taste blood they will not stop." Yukihime side-armed another rock off into the darkness and was immediately rewarded with a sharp, high-pitched squeal. "Even if they have eaten their fill, they will keep attacking; they appear to enjoy it."

"Disgusting creatures," Barbarossa muttered, suddenly very mindful of his unprotected back.

"Mmhmm."

They continued through the gloom until finally reaching a set of discolored security doors that were bereft of windows, visible hinges, or any signs of automation. For all intents and purposes they appeared as nothing more than slabs of rusted steel. Only the relatively-new keypad and the scrape marks on the floor indicated that someone used them within the last decade.

A security camera mounted above the doors tracked their movement as they approached. Three meters away, the doors opened inwards accompanied by the loud _ka-chunk_ of a disengaging maglock. Dry, intense heat rolled out of the newly-revealed corridor as a byproduct of the ceiling-mounted ultraviolet lamps extending down the length of the passage.

The wavelength adapter in Barbarossa's eyes immediately adjusted to take advantage of the new light source – though Yukihime, who was without cybereyes, needed to use her flashlight to see. Instead of the world being a blend of greens and grays, it was now cast in hues of pale blue, purple, and white. With the abundance of available light, he was able to see the length of the nine meter hallway and the open freight elevator at the far end.

Beneath the ultraviolet lights was the only area the fungi were unable to colonize. Despite the air being unpleasantly hot, it was clean of the pervasive spores that saturated the building. It was also free of the prowling devil rat packs, which was an added comfort. The beasts were susceptible to sunlight, and the UV lights provided the same skin-charring deterrent as the sun itself.

"Ii zou," Yukihime snapped. She yanked the makeshift mask off and inhaled deeply of the stifling air, a look of relief passing over her face. Obviously, the spore-filled atmosphere affected her more than Barbarossa thought. He reminded himself one more time to make sure he administered her anti-fungal treatment.

While walking down the hall that once was the main ingress point for deliveries to the stores, restaurants, and offices for the building, they passed numerous connecting passages that had been intentionally blocked-off with rubble. Strips of duct tape affixed bricks of C4 to the ceiling in each side passage. Small, wired sensor boxes that Barbarossa was unfamiliar with monitored each block of explosives.

In addition, something impeded wireless transmission inside the hall. He doubted it was a signal jammer since the range was so limited; however, he lacked the expertise necessary to make an accurate assessment of what it might be. As he expected, Yukihime appeared to be either unaware or else wholly unfazed by the interruption in matrix access.

The first thing Barbarossa noticed upon entering the freight elevator was the destruction of the electrical panel. There were no longer any buttons with which to choose a destination, open or close the door, or even activate the emergency stop. Not only had someone removed the buttons, but they destroyed the electrical system behind it as well. Likely, it was an attempt to prevent hot-wiring the elevator.

"Have any trouble finding the place, Doc?" The deep voice boomed through a hidden speaker, startling Barbarossa and causing Yukihime to reflexively reach for a sword with her free hand.

"No, I didn't have any problems finding the place. I did, however, not enjoy the journey; so if we could move this along, I'd appreciate it. This is not my only appointment today," he admonished.

"Yeah, yeah; I hear ya. Hang on."

The elevator jerked to life and started trundling upwards. Surprisingly, it was well-maintained in spite of appearances, and in no time he and Yukihime had reached their destination.

The doors opened on the 14th story and Barbarossa stepped out to look around, more than a little surprised. Somebody gutted the entire floor and disposed of every scrap of furniture. No flooring, no ceiling, no walls; someone turned the entire uppermost level into one giant loft apartment.

"Hey, Doc," a large troll waved from where he leaned against a steel I-beam; "Yuki."

A cursory cyber-optical scan measured him at 282 centimeters – well over the statistical height for a North American troll. His deep olive-brown complexion hinted at a Mediterranean or possibly North African ancestry, as did his more rounded features and large, high-bridged nose. This particular troll's horns were suggestive of a goat or bighorn ram; thick, curled, and erupting from the temple. Like all his kind, he sported lower jaw tusks that resulted in a significant under-bite, which was deceptively exaggerated due to the distinct robustness of his jaw.

He was neatly groomed and dressed smartly, which Barbarossa found pleasantly surprising. Instead of the typical shadowrunner fashion of neo-homeless-chic, the troll seemed to care about his appearance. Brown suede dress shoes, light gray slacks, button-up aquamarine shirt, topaz pinky ring, gold crucifix, and a large wristwatch-styled commlink completed an image that would look right at home on a vacationing corporate executive.

The file was incomplete when it came to whether or not the troll possessed any significant cyberware or body modifications, though the anecdotal data suggest he did. Barbarossa could not see any overt signs of cyberization, though that meant very little; most forms of augmentation left no tell-tale signs upon the exterior of a patient. However, thanks in-part to the short sleeve shirt the troll had on, Barbarossa was able to notice the faint outlines of sub-dermal armor plates surgically implanted beneath his already naturally-armored skin. That piece of information was not noted in the troll's file; he would have to revise it at a more opportune time.

"Thisaway." The big troll motioned that they follow him to a pool of light some forty meters away.

"This place looks more like a warehouse than it does someone's home," Yukihime observed while walking next to the troll. Barbarossa failed to notice when, but at some point she lowered the SCK to her left hip.

"Yeah, she likes it like this. I think it's so she's got a clear shot from anywhere in the joint. She's fraggin' paranoid," Hightower said.

"It must have been a lot of work clearing all this out," Yukihime remarked as she looked around.

"You bet your sweet little ass it was!" the troll barked in agreement. "It's the real curse of being born a fuckin' troll, baby. There ain't Goddamned one of us who doesn't get asked once a fucking week to help somebody move or remodel some shit. I've carried more piece o' shit couches up and down stairs than I can fuckin' count."

"That is probably because you cannot count past five," Yukihime replied with a lilting giggle.

Barbarossa paused, taken aback. Not only was he unaware that Yukihime and the troll were acquaintances, but they seemed to be fond of each other, as well. Every scrap of data on the troll suggested he was vulgar, misogynistic, and extremely disagreeable. While he had certainly demonstrated a mile-wide profane streak; for someone as standoffish as Yukihime to be fond of him warranted further scrutiny.

In order to reach the illuminated area, the three of them needed to weave their way between a series of meter high walls constructed out of heaped-up rubble. As far as Barbarossa was able to see, similar fortifications encircled the entire living area. Settled in behind each barricade they passed were stacks of ammunition magazines in varying sizes and bundles of grenades.

The troll must have noticed him looking. He chuckled; "I said she was paranoid, didn't I?"

Having woven through the maze of obstructions, Barbarossa found himself in the only furnished portion of the whole 14th floor. To call it Spartan would be an understatement. One section of the living space consisted solely of two ratty couches and an oversized threadbare recliner, all of which faced an antique trideo terminal that rested on milk crates. Another section, which Barbarossa suspected was the bedroom, held a queen-sized bed stacked high with pillows and blankets, a nightstand, clothes bureau and gun cabinet. Two meters away, the kitchen contained one long fold-out table stacked with a combination of toiletries and kitchen supplies. A chipped and peeling dining room table with three mismatched chairs, a gas-powered camping stove, a small refrigerator and a slop sink rounded out the list of amenities.

"Thanks for coming out, Barbarossa; I appreciate it," Razorback said.

Barbarossa knew the ork Razorback for going-on three years, and they maintained a good working relationship. However, before working with, or on, any client, he always initiated an exhaustive background check. He maintained files on all his patients as well as their associates. Years on the run from Aztechnology taught him that there was no such thing as over-preparation.

He maintained no office; instead insisting on bringing his mobile facilities to the client's home. To reduce exposure, he refused to do field medicine. Despite having multiple semi-permanent residences, he instead preferred to sleep in his large medical truck – often while droving aimlessly around the city.

In addition to security, the practice of in-home visits often gave him a great deal more actionable information about shadowrunners' identities and private lives. Information of that nature could be useful in any number of ways.

The only way to retain his services was through a referral; there were no exceptions. Not only was a referral unfailingly necessary, the referring patient must have been the recipient of his services a minimum of three times. In addition, the referring client must be present at the first visit to a new patient's home.

The referral system was an attempt to enforce some slight semblance of order upon a group of people who by their very nature were adverse to following rules. Betrayal ran rife through the shadowrunning community; there was no reason to believe that he would fare any better just because he tended to their broken bodies.

To minimize the danger of treachery, he brought his own security. Depending on the client, it ranged anywhere from two, to as many as half a dozen armed escorts. Often he would force shadowrunners who were unable to pay-off their medical expenses into the role. Agreeing to work as on-site security was one of the few ways that his clients were able to obtain credit. Since shadowrunners were in the business of getting injured, it created an ever-deepening pool of talent from which to draw.

The referral system is how he started doing work on Razorback, and transitively brought him to his newest client. Meanwhile, the credit system is how Yukihime ended-up as Barbarossa's personal security guard for his trip to Clyde's Hill and how the rigger Primo became his indentured driver.

"You don't need to thank me; this is my job and you're going to pay me for my time," Barbarossa countered. "Now where's the patient?"

"You're as mercenary as ever, Doc. She's over here."

Barbarossa watched as Razorback walked over to the bed. He was rather satisfied with his accomplishments concerning the ork, and took no small amount of pride in the work he had performed on him. When Razorback was first referred, he had only recently left the UCAS military and was in critical health. Barbarossa was unable to ferret out the circumstances that caused him to leave the military in such poor condition – though, not for lack of trying.

He was a big man, weighing in at or around 120 kilograms, thanks in-part to extensive bone lacing and muscle replacement. At 203 centimeters he was at the upper range of phenotypical norms for orks, though Barbarossa had noticed that orks with African ancestry did tend to run towards the larger end of the scale. Never having the opportunity to physically examine a Middle Eastern hobgoblin, which tended to be smaller members of the species, he needed to rely upon anecdotal evidence.

Superficially, Razorback's secondary physical characteristics were all within statistical norms. He possessed the narrow bridge and wide nasal aperture of most orks, though the horizontal scar that bisected the bridge of his nose made it distinct. Likewise his thin lips, significantly enlarged lower canines, and strong jaw were fairly typical for an ork, yet Razorback's extra-heavy neck musculature made his jaw seem more modest. Like most of his kind he also inherited a heavy brow ridge, slightly sunken eyes, and pointed ears. Conversely, the missing tip of his left ear and the radial bullet-wound scar on his temple were both unique personal characteristics.

Due to his exceptionally dark skin, the numerous pink scars that decorated his body stood out noticeably. There was so many and each so varying from the other, that had Barbarossa not known for certain that they were the result of injurious combat, one could make the mistake of thinking they were a cosmetic decoration.

Nevertheless, it was obvious from his physiognomy that personal decoration was not in Razorback's nature. He wore sandals, which showcased the two missing toes on his right foot, frayed knee-length khaki board shorts and a faded black T-shirt depicting a large fist with the word 'THUMP' emblazoned on it.

"I'm not a mercenary; I'm a businessman and I'm here to do a job," Barbarossa said, correcting Razorback's assertion. "Speaking of which, please send the elevator back down so that my assistants can bring my equipment up."

"Yeah, yeah; I got it, Doc." Hightower walked over to the section of the living area nearest to the couches and trideo terminal. Yukihime made herself at home on the recliner, placing her SCK on the floor and both swords across her lap. Using a duct-taped remote, she surfed through the near countless feeds searching for something that would hold her attention for longer than a few seconds.

Taped to an I-beam beam beside the recliner was a wired toggle switch that the troll flipped from the upward position down. Barbarossa heard the elevator's gears squeal into action as the car descended.

Moving up to the bedside next to Razorback, he saw that what he originally thought was a mound of blankets, was in-fact a woman tucked into a fetal position beneath a sweat and vomit stained sheet.

"When you called you told me it was an emergency. What makes you think this is anything more serious than the flu or food poisoning?" Barbarossa asked while eyeing the tell-tale signs of tranquilizer patch wrappers, empty cans of ginger ale, and a recently rinsed out bucket.

"'Cuz her arm's stopped workin' right, too. I've never heard of a flu that'd brick a cyberarm." Razorback gently pulled back the sheet stuck to the woman and pointed to the glossy black arm which lay at an odd angle across the pillow.

"Fair enough." Barbarossa felt Mercy's neck to check her pulse. Analytic sensors in his fingertips relayed their findings directly to his implanted commlink, which in turn displayed a compiled AR chart over the patient. Her pulse raced and was worryingly erratic; dangerously high blood pressure, fever of 39ºC, elevated cortisol with corresponding depressed glucose levels, low blood-oxygen and dangerously above average sodium and potassium concentrations were all indicators of a serious condition.

As if on cue, the elevator returned carrying his three assistants; two pushed wheeled, stainless-steel cabinets and the third rolled his portable exam table toward the doctor.

As they approached, Barbarossa said, "Perfect timing. Set up the table here under the light. You lot find some available outlets and start plugging in the machines."

His assistants immediately got to work. The three he brought with him represented a fraction of the available helpers he had at his disposal. Shadowrunners were not Barbarossa's sole clientele. He also did brisk business with various fixers, a few of the less psychotic street gangs, and most of Seattle's underworld organizations.

Much like shadowrunners, many of the other groups' members could end-up pressed into service to pay off their debts, as well. The only notable difference being, when a mobster needed clandestine service and wanted to avoid drawing attention by leaving a payment trail, he or she often 'volunteered' one or more of their subordinates to pay their debt for them.

Such was the case with the three he brought with him today.

The two men unloading the drones and plugging in anesthetic equipment were Finnegan lackeys. Each was on loan as part of an arrangement that settled a tab involving a clandestine procedure for one of Dona O'Malley's capos. As a means of security, Barbarossa fitted both men with specialty electrode nets designed specifically to allow him to wipe the memories created while wearing them. It was an elegant system that otherwise could only be duplicated by use of powerful, and frequently unreliable, drugs or else psychologically harmful personafix chips.

The young woman setting-up the exam table was a different story altogether. She was a gift for successfully removing a cortex bomb from a Vory spy. Apparently the information ripped from the spy's head after the bomb's removal proved so valuable that the Russians felt simple remuneration was insufficient.

At first he intended on simply selling the girl to organleggers. A young, healthy, and undamaged body could fetch a tidy sum on the right slab. However, she proved to be bright, engaging, as well as willing to learn; so instead, he decided to try and mold her into something useful. The results were more than satisfactory, though she required several procedures – including a poetic cortex bomb – to ensure that her loyalty was never in question.

It did not hurt that she was also a pleasantly curvaceous blond.

"Put her on the table, please." Barbarossa indicated the newly erected exam table with a nod of his head.

Once Razorback placed the tranquilized woman on the table, the doctor was able to get a good look at her.

She was a woman of average height, standing just shy of 172 centimeters. Possessing a slender frame, extremely short scarlet hair, and pixyish features; were she but born with pointed ears she could probably have been nobility in Tir na nOg. Like most people who had the recessive genes necessary for red hair and blue eyes, she had an exceptionally fair complexion. Though he was more than a little surprised to see that she lacked the freckled skin pigmentation that almost always accompanied her macroscopic genetic profile.

Of particular interest was the woman's right eye. Unlike the left eye, which was a standard issue cybereye; her right eye appeared to be an orb of black glass. None of the eye's typical architecture was present; no pupil, iris, cornea, etc. Looking closely, however, Barbarossa was able to see through the exterior glass lens and observe the complex mechanism within that was markedly different from a common cybernetic eye replacement.

Her only feature Barbarossa did not find appealing were the muscles; women should be softer, more curvaceous. He estimated that - discounting the breasts, which were a necessary exclusion when measuring females – the patient had at most four percent body fat, possibly less. Lying flat on the table wearing nothing but a thin-strapped sports top and shorts, he could see the ridiculous definition in her musculature; her abdominal muscles in particular were excessively defined. She lacked the bulging veins and bony protrusions of someone physically unwell or unnecessarily overdeveloped, but instead possessed the lissome muscle tone of a gymnast or triathlete.

Using a pneumatic aerosol injector, he administered a generous dose of anesthetic directly into the brachial vein of Mercy's right arm. The small, pistol-shaped device used compressed air to fire the drug through her skin and into the bloodstream. The effects of the drug were immediately evident as the tension left her muscles and her breathing evened into a soft snore.

Barbarossa went to work examining the defunct cyberarm. The limb offered no resistance to manipulation during his comprehensive examination. Finally, when handling the bicep close to the armpit, he located a USB-9 port concealed behind a small spring-loaded hatch. Pressing sharply on the side of the hatch caused it pop open, revealing the socket within. Retrieving several cables from a drawer within one of the portable cabinets, he plugged one end into one of the two USB sockets behind his right ear. Next, he inserted a platinum-tipped fiber optic cable into the chromium datajack similarly located behind his ear. He then attached both cables to a specially programmed cyberdeck, and finally connected the cyberdeck to Mercy's arm via a third cable.

Downloading the diagnostic readout from the arm, Barbarossa was careful to route everything through the redundant security programs loaded into the cyberdeck. He was sure to continually scan for viruses, tracking malware, and vicious intruder countermeasures installed into the arm's firmware.

The arm was military issue, and as such, there was little in the way of technical schematics available to the public. Matrix searches revealed nothing, and Barbarossa was afraid of raising any red flags by digging too deeply. That concern also carried across into the world of flesh and blood. The UCAS military was not beyond putting some form of booby trap in an experimental piece of hardware, especially when that hardware might just up and disappear someday – which is exactly what happened.

Auto-diagnostic programs in Mercy's arm identified the problem before Barbarossa even arrived on the scene. Unfortunately, since the arm's matrix connectivity had long-since been severed as a security precaution against tracking, it was unable to relay that information to any interested parties.

"There's a feedback loop between the back-up battery and the gyroscopic stabilizer. That caused the battery to burn out and its leaking non-organic phosphates and ionized sodium into her blood stream."

"Doesn't sound good, canya fix it?" Razorback asked. He leaned over the table opposite of Barbarossa, watching the doctor work.

"No, I can't."

"What?! Why the hell not?" Hightower bellowed from where he reclined on a couch. The troll swung up to a seated position when he heard Barbarossa's diagnosis.

"It's not a mechanical problem; there's something wrong with the software," he informed them. "If I was forced to guess, I'd say someone corrupted it during an attempt to hack her arm."

"So what're we supposed ta do?" The look on Razorback's face was one part concern and one part rising frustration. "Can't just leave'er like this."

Hightower pushed himself off the couch and started stomping towards Barbarossa. Yukihime, however, snagged the troll's knee as he passed her on the recliner.

"That will not help; go sit down," she instructed the big troll without looking up from trideo-surfing.

Barbarossa failed to conceal his shocked expression when the troll obediently went and sat back down. Razorback looked at him with what appeared to be a state of equal surprise.

The ork looked across the table at Barbarossa and shrugged, bewildered. "Don't ask me; I didn't even know they knew each other."

"Were I in your shoes, Paul, that would be a skill I'd be very interested in acquiring," Barbarossa muttered under his breath.

"Right? I can't even get 'im ta shuttup during a Johnson interview," Razorback whispered. Exasperation and admiration mixed equally in his expression as he looked over at Hightower and Yukihime sitting in front of the trideo projector.

"You two assholes don't whisper as quiet as you think you do! Just fix her damned arm and geek the fuckin' girl talk!" the troll shouted, albeit somewhat sullenly.

Barbarossa nodded, returning his attention to the defunct arm he held.

"As I was saying; I can't fix the programming issue with the arm, that's outside my area of expertise. What I will do, however, is replace the leaking battery and start her on IV fluids and a course of reparatory nanomachines."

"Ya lost me after IV, but whatever," Razorback said, shrugging. "You're the doctor."

"Good." Barbarossa turned to the young woman who stood-by idly after erecting the examination table. "Ramona, get me the IV pole, a one thousand milliliter saline bag, two glucose patches, one of the new S-K one-forty-one A, ninety-six amp batteries, and a syringe of blank platelets."

As she scurried over to the rolling cabinets, Barbarossa shouted, "And get the, the um, the laser writer."

"The imprinter?" she asked, holding up a small hand-held device with a wide red lens.

"Yes, that's it," he affirmed, looking up at what she held. "Bring me the small drone, too."

"Okay."

Taking the proffered device and accompanying syringe of platelets, Barbarossa accessed the imprinter's augmented reality functions. Navigating the menu, he selected parameters necessary to return Mercy's blood composition to normal levels. Once finished, he swept the laser imprinter over the vial of blank platelets. The microscopic biomechanical platelets were now programmed to absorb non-organic phosphates and ionized sodium – along with several other trace impurities. After they absorbed the requisite amount, they would then pass harmlessly out of her body via normal biological elimination.

Barbarossa placed the two dermal glucose patches on Mercy's skin – one above the left external jugular vein and the second overtop the right femoral vein. Once finished, and Ramona had set-up the IV near the patient's elbow, he injected the programmed platelets into the piggyback junction on the tubing.

"Very good, let's allow that run its course," he said while critically inspecting the intravenous injection site.

"How long's that gonna take?" Razorback asked.

"The IV will take ten hours, give or take. I'll have the battery replaced approximately fifteen minutes after I answer the last inane question you ask."

Hightower burst out in a deep, booming guffaw while Barbarossa glared disapprovingly at Razorback.

"Right. Point taken," Razorback said, slinking away towards where Hightower and Yukihime were sitting. "I'll just go sit over there an' watch the trid then."

Watching the ork leave, Barbarossa extended a thin, stainless steel bar from beneath the table's edge. The hinged bar folded near its base, enabling him to pass it over the patient, fold the opposite end, and then clip to the far side of the table. When in place, it superficially resembled the restraining crossbar used in rollercoaster seats.

The drone that his assistant brought him was a plasteel disk 40 centimeters in diameter and 10 centimeters thick. Along the outside ring, ten multi-jointed mechanical arms with various tooltips dangled inertly. Attached to the bar above the examination table by way of a motorized trolley, the drone hung directly over Mercy's malfunctioning cyberarm.

"Bring me that chair," Barbarossa instructed, pointing at a folding chair beneath the kitchen table. Sitting down after one of nameless Finnegan thugs brought him the chair, he dove into the drone.

Through the control rig he became the medical drone on the examination table. The drone's mechanical limbs were his hands; the ultra-high-definition cameras were his eyes.

Adjusting his height and position on the crossbar, Barbarossa centered himself over the battery that needed replaced. Scanning the surface of the arm, he marked twenty-three screws, pins, and bolts that required removal in order to gain access to the battery. In addition, he needed to disconnect several key pieces of wiring and some inconveniently placed vasohydraulic tendons.

He began to meticulously remove bolts and screws. Each of the drone's ten arms was an extension of his consciousness and was as natural as his own flesh. He felt the resistance of a stubborn bolt and the strain that a damaged cotter pin was under as he pried it loose; he could even feel the smooth texture of an access panel through the drone's tiny mechanical hands. Autonomically switching between mechanical limbs and their unique tools, Barbarossa swiftly disassembled Mercy's cyberarm.

 **Chapter 13**

"You know he was a rigger?" Hightower asked while watching Mercy's procedure.

Razorback nodded; "Yeah, the Doc's done alotta work on me, so I knew."

"Why do you find that so surprising?" Yukihime enquired casually. In one hand she was manipulating the remote; in the other she idly twirled the end of her long braid.

"Dunno, suppose I just have an old fashioned view of doctors. I mean, it makes sense; medical drones and all. I guess I just never thought about it," Hightower muttered, more to himself than the two sitting near him.

"How'd you end up bodyguardin' for him anyway?" Razorback had to lean out over the arm of the sofa in order to see Yukihime buried in the large recliner.

She answered without turning the recliner or looking in Razorback's direction. "Seven weeks ago, four others and I ran a data-theft job against a company in SSC named Verdeluxe."

"Never heard of it."

"Neither had I at the time," she said. "They research, engineer, and manufacture ultra-high-end foods; mostly fruits and vegetables."

"You did a 'run against a company trying to design the perfect carrot?" Hightower chuckled at the idea.

Yukihime likewise laughed softly. "That is basically what I thought as well. In truth, it turns out that they were implementing a genetic engineering procedure that would grow pre-medicated foods."

"Pre-medicated? Ya mean like a banana that cures cancer?" Razorback asked, obviously skeptical of the idea.

"Possibly, though the facility we infiltrated was growing wheat. Imagine wheat that would administer a tiny dose of genetic leonization therapy with every slice of bread," she said, pausing to let the implication sink in. "It would be monumental to develop something like that. Envision adding a week to your life every time you made a sandwich."

"The bran muffin of immortality." Hightower snorted and choked trying to keep a straight face. Finally, he just burst out in laughter at his own joke.

Razorback turned to look at him. Smirking, he said, "You're an idiot."

"Whaaaat? You prefer the bagel of life? OH! OH! OH! – the enchanted rutabaga; it gives you magic powers and it's a great source of roughage!" Hightower doubled over in laughter, unable to contain himself.

Razorback looked meaningfully at Yukihime; "It's your story, so that means me hearin' the phrase 'enchanted rutabaga' is your fault. How're'ya gonna make up for that, huh?"

"I have wronged you, and I can never make up for what I have done. Please forgive me," Yukihime said with mock solemnity and an exaggerated, seated bow.

"You two have the collective sense of humor of a sack a wet dog shit. Ya know that?" Hightower said sourly while wiping away tears.

Razorback sighed and rolled his eyes; "Aaanyway, you were sayin'."

"Hai…um, oh; I received the job from a fixer with whom I had worked previously in Vancouver. He was local and put the team together before I arrived, but assured me that every precaution had been taken. He also assured me that the other members of my team had done all the research and reconnaissance necessary, and that my presence would simply be an added security measure. The money was good and the job was purportedly very easy, so I agreed."

"Ouch." Razorback grimaced, sucking air in through his teeth.

"Bonehead move, babydoll," Hightower scolded her, shaking his head.

"Thank you for your keen observation," Yukihime snapped sarcastically. "Regardless, when I arrived the team consisted of me, two street children barely old enough to carry weapons, an incompetent and inebriated drone pilot and the local decker Saeed. We—"

"I know that asshole," Hightower interrupted; "He's pretty sharp; nice kid, too."

"But you just called him an asshole," Yukihime protested in confusion.

"Yeah, but I meant it affectionately," he explained.

Yukihime looked at Razorback for some sort of clarification. "How do you call someone an asshole affectionately?"

Hightower laughed; "It's just one of my many mysteries, sweetheart."

"Shit! Speaking of deckers; I forgot to call Sil and see if he can look at Rosie's arm," Razorback suddenly blurted out.

"I already did. He said he'd be here in about 30 minutes if the busses were running on time. Then he said some weird shit about setting up an office in Clyde's Hill and started laughing like a fuckin' dipshit so I hung up." Hightower dismissed Razorback's concern; tapping his own forehead with his index finger, he winked, and smiling self-satisfyingly, said, "I got it all under control."

"Why would he need to come all the way out here? Why not just do it from home?" Yukihime asked.

"That stupid arm o' hers ain't connected. He's got to do it in person," he explained to her while pointing at the disassembled limb the doctor worked on across the room.

"Wait…that does not make any sense; if her arm is not wirelessly active, how did someone hack it?" she questioned with a furrowed brow and pursed lips.

"Um…" Razorback looked over at Hightower with a cloud of confusion passing over his face.

"Republican sasquatch voodoo ninjas. How the fuck'm I s'pposed to know?" Hightower threw his arms up in the air and sank deeper into the couch. The already stressed springs within groaned under his weight and metallic _ting, ta-ting, ting_ sounds echoed throughout the open space of the 14th floor.

"Would it have killed you to just say 'I do not know?" Yukihime asked, incensed.

"It might have, yeah. Luckily we'll never find out, 'cuz I dodged that fuckin' bullet, didn't I?" Hightower goaded. "Besides it'd sound fraggin' weird if I'da said 'I do not know' like I was usin' a talky or somthin'"

"Yeah, well, do me a favor and don't dodge the next bullet, OK?" Razorback shot back sarcastically.

"Besides it _isn't_ my fault I talk like this; English _isn't_ my first language." Yukihime pouted, turning slightly red in the cheeks.

"Keep sayin' shit like that and you'll hurt my feelings, Paul. I'm really a very delicate person deep inside." Hightower barreled on, completely ignoring Yukihime's protests about her conversational skills.

"I want nothin' ta do with anywhere deep inside you, believe me," Razorback assured him, punctuating the sentiment with an annoyed expression. "Finish your story, Yuki"

"Kiko," Yukihime said, correcting him.

"Sorry?"

Yukihime leaned out over the arm of the chair and said, "My first name is Kiko; actually Akiko, but you may call me Kiko."

Razorback nodded; "Oh, alright, go 'head and finish your story, Kiko."

Yukihime exhaled sharply while glaring at Hightower, who immediately averted his eyes. "To make a long story very, very short: Verdeluxe is in-fact an unnamed subsidiary of Universal Omnitech; the team had not, in-fact, done the necessary research into the facility's security; we failed to even make it into the facility before the children triggered a hidden alarm; and before I could react, both rookies and the rigger were dead while I had a bullet in my lung."

Climbing up out of the chair, Yukihime laid her swords on the floor and turned her back to both Hightower and Razorback. Then, removing her coat and adjusting her scant tube-top, she revealed the still-red circular scar over her right lung nestled in amongst scintillating snowflake tattoos.

"Ouch!" Razorback winced. "How'd ya get out with a hole in yer back?"

"Yeah, no shit? A bullet in my lung would'a even put me on my ass and I got a lot more meat on my bones than you do. Besides, I know you ain't gotta pain editor or nothin' ta keep ya from passin' out," Hightower said while leaning forward to get a good look at the injury.

"I did pass out," Yukihime told him while putting her coat back on and returning to her seat, "When I regained consciousness, my wound had already been field stitched and both Saeed and I were in a car and nearly back to Vancouver. He drove us right to the train station downtown. Somehow he managed to acquire a pair of tickets back to home to Seattle on the new bullet train. He even arranged for the doctor to meet us at a safe-house in Everett."

"Shit… that little fucker's stock just went up a coupla dozen points, eh?" Hightower asked, looking at Razorback.

"No kiddin'"

"I could not pay the bill I incurred having the doctor remove the bullet and stitching the wound – especially so, since I made him do it all by hand without nanite assistance," she said while searching for the remote. "So, an arrangement was made that I would work off the bill for his services."

"How much longer ya got?" Hightower enquired.

"My debt will be paid off in three days – give or take." There was a definite note of eager anticipation in Yukihime's voice regarding her indenture's completion.

"You sound pretty happy 'bout that. Is workin' for the Doc so bad?" Razorback asked her.

Yukihime's shoulders slumped marginally as she said, "No, he is very exacting though; only the time he…deems, I think is the word?...deems appropriate is removed from your debt. The work is not often as exciting as it was today. Nevertheless, I am not making any money right now. So, while I pay off one debt I am incurring others that I cannot pay. It works to be a vicious cycle."

"Gotcha."

Yukihime finally settled on a trideo rerun of the previous week's Urban Brawl match. Despite it being a rerun, Hightower's vision was still flooded with a jumble of competing AROs, advertisements, micro-transactions for personalized commentary and analysis, countless player and league statistics, more advertisements, apparel offers, etcetera.

"Christ! Turn that shit off!" he bellowed, throwing a ratty pillow through the projected image. "I lost ¥200 on Ostermann and his sissy-ass surrender!"

Yukihime pivoted in her recliner to look back at him. "Dybdahl knocked him from his motorcycle and then assaulted him _with the motorcycle!_ "

"So? That's what all that fuckin' chrome is for; to suck up some punishment," Hightower shouted in rebuttal.

Razorback chuckled; "Ostermann's human, Vince. I don't care what 'wares he's got; when a Swedish giant hitsya inna head with a Harley, the 'man goes down!"

"Everybody's got a fuckin' excuse nowadays," Hightower grumbled.

"Will you please stop your whining? I did not get to watch the last quarter when it was on and I would like to see how it ends." Yukihime scolded him while spinning the recliner back to face the trideo projection.

Razorback looked at Hightower, arms spread wide and a disbelieving glare on his face.

"What tha hell is it with you two? I ask you to keep it down durin' a job and I get all sortsa static for a week. She tells ya to be quiet durin' a _fraggin' rerun_ an' you shut right the hell up?!"

"Maybe I just like her better than you, you ever think of that?" Hightower responded sarcastically.

"Yeah, that's some bullshit right there," Razorback argued, dismissing his rationale. "You don't like anybody. I've got no idea why she's so damn special."

Hightower raised his chin and adopted a put-upon, angelic mien. "My mother taught me to be respectful of women. It's not my fault you were raised like a Goddamned heathen."

"Yeah, what about Caly?" Razorback asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Fuck that loud-mouthed cunt right in her ass!"

"Kisama!" Yukihime whirled in the chair and threw the remote at the troll.

Razorback laughed; "Ok, so that's one excuse down tha chute."

Hightower let the remote bounce harmlessly off his shoulder. "Honestly, it's 'cuz she saved my ass on the first job I ran and I s'pose I took a liking to the little pain in the neck."

"I thought the first job ya ran was wit' us on that blackout fiasco," Razorback said, puzzled.

Shaking his head, Hightower said, "Nah, I did a couple before that; though, I don't like to brag much about 'em too much."

Yukihime giggled.

"I can tell the fuckin' story; I don't need you makin' noises over there. Watch yer damn game!" Hightower snapped, tossing the remote back at Yukihime. She caught it between her thumb and first finger without looking.

"Show-off."

Razorback held up his hand in an abortive posture. "Hang on, hang on. I've got a call and I wanna hear this."

"Learn to do two things at once, ya crusty old fucker."

"I will do two things at once; I'm gonna listen to the story and laugh at you. Now, shut-up."

Hightower sat listening to one half of the conversation: "Hey we were just talkin' about you." "Whatdyamean?! How many?" "You OK?" "Vince send the elevator down _now_!" "There should be a coupla guys and big moving truck down there, too." "All of 'em?" "What're they wearin'" "Run! Just run!"

"What the fuck is goin' on?!" Hightower shouted.

Razorback leapt off the couch yelling; "That was Caly, believe it or not; apparently there's a squad comin' in hot!"

"Bad?"

"Uh-huh," he said. "Yeah, pretty bad."

Yukihime leapt out of the chair and dashed toward the doctor who, while fully submerged in the drone, was unaware of the danger.

Hightower pushed himself up and kicked the couch out of his way. "Why'd she call you?"

"She tried Rosie first, but it just went to voicemail so she called me to see if I knew where she was," Razorback snarled. "It don't matter right now, though. They came up behind 'er and now she's cornered downstairs."

"Fuck me; I'll go down. Gimme a sec and then hit the switch," Hightower said while sprinting for the elevator. "Do _NOT_ blow that Goddamned hallway 'til I'm back!"

"You don't even have a weapon!" Razorback shouted. He had raced to the gun cabinet Mercy kept next to her bed and ripped one of the doors off in order to bypass the old-school mechanical lock. "Take something with you!"

"Unless there's somethin' in there without a guard; I can't get my fuckin' fingers in to pull the Goddamned trigger! Don't worry about it; I got this covered. Call Dave and then kill those jammers downstairs."

Bending over the protective barriers while in mid-stride, Hightower scooped up a large bundle of Mercy's 'emergency grenades' and flat-out ran for the elevator. Grabbing the elevator's frame to stall his momentum, he skidded to a stop centimeters before smacking into the rear wall. The entire apparatus shook from his high-speed entrance as the sound of the cables slapping together reverberated throughout the shaft. Razorback hit the switch and the car descended, still swaying pendulously.

Waiting as the elevator trundled down the shaft, Hightower strained his ears for the sound of gunfire. He knew it was pointless; the intervening floors and open spaces would distort the sound until it was unrecognizable. Not only that, the elevator shaft itself would insulate him against hearing anything worthwhile. Regardless, he still anxiously listened.

"What is going _on_ today?!" Silhouette's voice and icon came through Hightower's commlink simultaneously. "I'm puttin' out fires left and right!"

"Huh? What tha hell're you talkin' about?" Hightower asked, confused.

"Nevermind, it's not important. Here's the thing; I'm on the bus now, but it's probably going to be like another twenty-or-so minutes before I'm there. Whatever's goin' on, I can't do too much from here for, well, you know, lotsa reasons," Silhouette said elusively. "But I'm gonna send you some help. Get kinda close to one of them so I can crack open a backdoor in their network."

"How close is close?"

"Mmmm…twenty meters?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you?"

"What the fuck, man?!"

"Twenty meters!"

"Fine. Thank you." Hightower slammed his fist into the elevator's side panel, creating a watermelon sized dent in the metal. "Just so you know, if I die I'm gonna haunt your ass!"

"Why me? I didn't do anything," Silhouette said.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors slid open. "Principles, Goddammit!"

Hot, dry air assailed him through the open doors. The powerful lamps overhead were UV-C emitters, which was fantastic for keeping out fungi and devil rats, but produced no visible light. Hightower stumbled into the darkened hallway, and, out of reflex, activated the thermographic filter in his cybereyes.

"Motherfuckingchristonfire!" he screamed, clutching his eyes and slamming shoulder first into the wall.

Calypso: "What?!"

Razorback: "What happened?"

Silhouette: "Are you okay?"

Yukihime: "Daijoubu desu ka?"

"Wonderful…I fry my fucking eyeballs and _now_ suddenly everyone's on the same Goddamned channel," he muttered, making his way down the hall. The failsafe in his eyes activated to prevent lasting retinal damage; however, he was still beset with waves of brilliant afterimages. "Thank you all for your concern, but I'm fine. And Yuki, I love that you're worried about me, but you gotta be worried about me in a language I can fraggin' understand."

"Bonkura! If my concern is so offensive, next time I will not voice it!" she shouted testily.

"They're right behind me! It's like a maze in here; I can't see!" Calypso moaned. Hightower could hear the edge of panic creeping into her voice. Panic was a bad sign. "I can't get out!"

"Use your other sight, look into the astral," Yukihime suggested.

"How'd you know she was a sha—?"

"I can't; there's so much life down here it's like trying to see through soup," Calypso countered, interrupting Silhouette. "Even the air is alive! Wait, who—?"

"Can't you summon a spirit or something to guide you?" Razorback half-asked and half instructed.

Calypso panted and coughing as she said, "I did; they must have a mage—"

"Will the peanut gallery please shut the fuck up!?" Hightower bellowed. Reaching the end of the corridor, he reactivated the thermographic filter in his cybereyes. The world came into view as shades or reds, oranges, greens and blues. "I need a layout of this shit-hole, like ASAP."

Silhouette → Hightower: I can't get into City Hall from here. The best I can do is give you this

A bright blue dot appeared in Hightower's vision; above the dot was a small readout showing 71.15m. Next to the readout a small arrow pointed towards the dot and showed 'W x NW'.

"Fukkit…good enough, I guess. Thanks." Hightower bolted off in the direction the arrow pointed. He leapt over low obstacles; taller obstacles he simply plowed through. The distance above the blue dot decreased, but nowhere near fast enough. Some of the larger piles required that he find a route around – and that took time. On a few occasions he was even forced to double back to locate a more suitable route through the ruined building.

Hightower spat out a mouthful of what tasted like bitter paste. "My God, this is like trying to breathe through a friggin' straw. The fuckin' air down here is so Goddamned thick."

" _Shitte imasu!"_ Yukihime exclaimed. "I had to tear off my stocking and use it as a mask!"

"Fuck! I knew I should have worn pantyhose today!" Hightower retorted sarcastically. "Ya know what; this is fuckin' retarded."

He managed to grab five grenades from the small stockpiles that Mercy kept behind her cover-fire barricades; checking the directionality of the arrow that indicated Calypso's location, Hightower pulled the pin on one. The tiny spherical explosive was too small for him to grip easily; instead, he clutched it between his first two fingers and thumb. In lieu of lobbing the grenade, he cocked back his arm as if he intended to throw a baseball. Aiming approximately 30 degrees off from where the HUD marker showed Calyspo's location, Hightower pitched it with as much force as possible.

It left his hand with more power than any human, even one extensively augmented, could ever have hoped to generate. The pin and fuse mechanism made the grenade an asymmetric projectile, giving it a unique 'ftftftftftftftftftft' sound as it sped away.

Taking a deep breath despite the compost air, Hightower shouted, "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" with as much volume as he could muster. The resulting explosion of sound was only marginally eclipsed by the subsequent explosion caused by the grenade.

Razorback: "Turn down the comm' mic' before ya do that, man!"

Silhouette "Aaaahhoow!"

Yukihime: "Fool!"

Calypso: "Spirits above! What are you doing?! You're supposed to be saving me!"

"Quit'cher bitchin'! How close was that?" Hightower's asked.

"I-I don't know; I couldn't feel the b-blast much but it sounded pretty close," Calypso whispered, her voice pitched low. "It looks like they split up. There's a lot of shouting, but I can't understand what they're saying. It sounds like maybe they're speaking Azzie."

"No shit? Well, whatever; it don't matter." Hightower smashed through a sodden wall of sheetrock and sent a pack of devil rats scurrying for cover. The voracious little monsters might be vicious, but they were not stupid; even a good-sized pack had no desire to attack a charging troll.

"I can beam you a translator if you think it'd help," Silhouette offered.

"Nah, I'm guessin' I'm not gonna give two-shits 'bout what they're sayin'. Thanks though." Hightower continued his forward march through the ruined building's interior. After another few meters progress he pulled the pin on a second grenade.

"Caly, cover-up 'til Hightower can rendezvous, then you un-ass yourself ASAP," Razorback instructed. Hightower smiled. Whenever a situation got tense, Razorback unconsciously reverted to his old military tone and jargon – though now it was unfailingly contaminated with bizarre street and shadowrunning slang. Though the ork refused to talk about it, Hightower was sure that he had held a position of some authority in the Marines. When Razorback started barking orders he could make a raving Halloweener drop and start doing push-ups.

This time when he threw the grenade he aimed 30 degrees to the opposite side of the blue dot.

Using the eye-twitch controls in his cybereyes, Hightower lowered the transmission volume in his commlink before shouting, "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Again the grenade zipped through the air like a missile, though this time it appeared to travel far less distance before striking an obstruction and exploding.

Calypso screamed when the grenade went off. The blue dot suddenly started moving again, this time in what appeared to be random directions. Hightower could hear her in the distance splashing through the standing water and crashing into things.

"Jesus Christ; be quiet!" he told her. "You're supposed to be hiding, remember?!"

"I'm sorry, but it's so dark in here and I can feel them all around me and everything's closing in! Help me! Please! I can't get away!" There was no edge of panic in Calypso's voice now; it was full-on terror.

A text message scrolled through Hightower's lower field of vision from Silhouette: Calypso is intensely cleithrophobic

Hightower → Silhouette: What the fuck is cleithrophobic?

Silhouette → Hightower: It's similar to claustrophobia but instead of being afraid of closed in spaces you're afraid of being trapped or restrained

"You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me with this shit…" Hightower broke into a run, aiming in the direction of Calypso's confused blue dot. He remembered when he was younger; his family had to build a special bedroom at their house in Bellevue for his baby sister. It stuck out from the house so that it could have a skylight and three of the four walls could hold giant bay windows to let in as much light as possible. When Maria was six and their grandmother died in New York, they needed to dope her unconscious to even get on the plane.

Most of all, he remembered her screaming in the dark about how the walls were closing in.

Staccato bursts of gunfire echoed throughout the cavernous open area. In the distance he could see three metahuman infrared signatures, all of them approximately human sized. If they used thermographic vision – which he was sure they would be – his larger frame would be an easy target. A spray of bullets peppered the area, sending stagnant water and chips of concrete to pelt him as an indication he was correct.

As Hightower prepared to throw a grenade at the cluster of encroaching gunmen, a small purple octopus with black ringed tentacles and thick-rimmed spectacles appeared from over his shoulder. The tiny cephalopod hovered in the edge of his vision, orienting itself towards the group approaching from Hightower's north. It then rocketed forward on an intercept course for a previously-unseen augmented reality icon, leaving an AR cloud of virtual ink in its wake. In its tiny little tentacle it held a squiggling strand of black and purple DNA with large, malevolent googly eyes.

Silhouette's ridiculous iconography always amused him.

Instead of throwing the grenade and risk derailing whatever it was that Silhouette had planned, he resumed his charge through the muck. Orienting himself toward where Calypso's dot stopped moving, Hightower saw a three-person team approaching her from the south. They were too close to risk throwing another grenade; so instead, he tossed it behind their position. The resultant explosion scattered the team, at least temporarily, and yielded another burst of gunfire from the first.

"What's going on, dammit!?" Razorback shouted.

"Let's see; I have three assholes shooting at me and I'm about to have three more. Maybe only two though, 'cuz I think Caly managed to squeak out something about one being a fuckin' mage."

"I should have gone with you. Mages do not frighten me," Yukihime informed him anxiously. "It is my responsibility to stay here and guard the doctor though; I am sorry."

"Do I sound particularly scared? If she can't see in this shit neither can he," Hightower told her. In truth, he was more than a little worried about having to deal with a mage, though. Even under the best of circumstances magic made his skin crawl; fighting an unknown mage in the dark and with only two grenades was a fairly horrible prospect.

"What if he was smart enough to bring goggles?" Yukihime questioned.

Hightower grumbled under his breath, "Yet another fly swimming in my bowl of shit soup."

"That doesn't even make any sense," Silhouette mumbled. "What difference does the fly make? I mean, it's not like you were going to eat the soup anyway, it's made o—"

"I'm not required to make sense when people are shooting at me, _Godammit!_ "

The three gunmen that nearly stumbled over Calypso recovered from the grenade's explosion and reoriented on Hightower.

"Mierda, ella tiene un puto trog!" one of the gunmen shouted as he fired. Two of the bullets struck Hightower; one in the chest and another in the stomach. At a range of more than 20 meters, the shots lacked the power necessary to do any real damage. His naturally thick hide and ceramic endoplating absorbed the majority of the impact. Nevertheless, each bullet wound was exceedingly painful.

"These assholes aren't speaking Azzie Spanish, they're speaking Spanish Spanish; like, L.A. Spanish," Hightower sputtered as a bullet from the first team slapped his calf. "And they keep shooting me!"

"Ella no tiene un troll, tengo yo tengo us ser humano! Ya greasy little cocksuckers!"

"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," Razorback said in an oddly-bemused tone.

"Spanish ain't nothin' but Italian's halfwit stepchild," Hightower shouted while sprinting for cover behind a partially-collapsed column. "Besides, do we really have to talk about this right-fuckin-now?!"

Having moved within 20 meters of the second group, Hightower felt comfortable activating the ultrasound filter in his cybereyes. Over long distances, especially with numerous obstacles, ultrasound was inferior to basic thermographic sight. Up close, however, the texture mapping qualities of ultrasound provided a level of detail that thermographic imaging could not match.

"Esta aqui! Aqui!"

"Fuck you, Pedro!"

Hightower dove behind a large pile of sodden, unidentifiable mulch to avoid a spray of gunfire. As he lay in the filth-infused water he could almost feel the three bullet wounds getting infected.

Concentrated gunfire shredded the pile of whatever it was he hid behind. The team from the north circled around and was in the process of flanking his position. They advanced under the cover of controlled bursts from light submachineguns. Another bullet struck Hightower in the right buttock, though his reinforced body turned a flesh wound into a shallow gouge.

Surging up to his feet, he scampered to circumnavigate a mound of what used to be glass display cases. He successfully drew attention away from Calypso, but was now caught in a pincer attack.

Without warning, his entire visual perspective changed. An architectural blueprint overlay displayed where all the walls and stairwells had once been. Eight red 'X' marks appeared, six inside the building's perimeter and two outside. Four orange 'X's were also outside the building, but their elevated altitude put them parallel with the fourteenth floor. In addition, six real-time video feeds sprung to life along the outer edge of his vision; he was visible in all of them – he took little solace in being right about the team using thermographic imaging.

Beneath each video feed was a small iconographic depiction of a generic submachinegun. Each weapon was at least partially blocked-in with red shading to depict the amount of expended ammunition. Next to the weapon readouts were tiny hollow cutouts of men; each cutout had highlights in different areas showing their respective cybernetic enhancements.

"'Tower will move in three, two, and one. _NOW_." Silhouette's voice was emotionless, tinny, and hollow; it sounded as if it came from a great distance away. Without questioning why, Hightower sprinted directly towards Calypso's dot. He squinted as he ran; somehow irrationally thinking that closing his eyes would protect him from the hail of bullets he expected. Instead of bullets there were screams.

The six video feeds showed frenetically flashing lights, psychedelic colors, strobe effects and moments of sudden blackness. Though he had no way of knowing for sure, Hightower suspected that the two teams were also getting barraged with audio stimuli of an equal ferocity.

Pulling the pin on his last two grenades, he turned and lobbed them in the direction of the three-man team that encroached on his rear. Without waiting to see their effects, he dashed the remaining distance between himself and Calypso.

One of the video feeds in his vision flashed in synch with the grenades' explosion then went blank.

Though standing all but on top of the blue dot, Hightower was unable to find Calypso. Several scenarios ran through his head: during her panicked run through the darkness she could have dropped her commlink; they might have captured her without him hearing it, or perhaps even gotten herself killed.

"Sil, I'm right on top of her marker and she ain't here. I dunno how long that AV blitz you cooked-up is gonna last, but I don't have time to go play hide and seek down here. Anyone got any really impressive ideas right now?" Hightower scanned the area, switching between optic filters.

The team approaching from the rear was still down; whether they got hit by explosions or still struggled with Silhouette's virus was anyone's guess.

Of the second team, one was down – though his flailing suggested that he was probably uninjured; in all likelihood he tripped and fell after losing his senses. The second gunman staggered drunkenly while clutching his ear with his free hand. And the last of the second team had his weapon between his knees and struggled to remove a pair of goggles whose safety strap had somehow gotten tangled in the balaclava he wore.

"Hang on, we have a situation up here," Razorback responded. "You're gonna have to find 'er yourself; I think shit's gonna get nasty any second now."

"Hey! What the hell is happening up there?!"

"Find Caly and get out!" Razorback ordered.

"Easy for you to fu…" Hightower jumped as something wet latched on to his ankle. Jerking his foot back as a reflex, he felt whatever it was clasp on to his pants leg.

"Please help me. Pl-Please. I can't get out. I-I can't–I can't find the way out. Please?" A soft breeze stirred the stagnant air as a wisp-thin spirit discorporated. What was once empty space was now Calypso. She huddled against a piece of collapsed ceiling, her eyes wide and staring ahead in terror. Rocking back and forth, she hugged her knees to her chest with her left hand and with her right clutched the cuff of Hightower's pants.

"Never turn your back to a Chulo, pendejo!" Hightower felt the magic hit him and gritted his teeth, bracing against its effect. A feeling akin to a dull throbbing headache settled over his brain momentarily, and then passed. For a second, both men stood motionless; each expected something more to happen.

"Are you fuck- _ing_ kidding me?!" Hightower kicked his leg free from Calypso's grasp, eliciting a shrill whimper. Charging the mage, he taunted: "She more dangerous than you and she's fucking shitting her pants!"

The mage lurched backward, attempting to get his submachinegun up into firing position, but it was too late. Hightower slapped his weapon away with his left hand and drove his right fist into the top of the horrified man's skull. Driven to his knees by the impact, he could offer no resistance when the troll grabbed the back of his head and drove it face-first into his rising knee. The impact crushed the mage's face and ruptured his skull outwards. The dead man exhaled a final gurgling sigh and crumpled into a heap.

"This ain't a runner team or some kinda hit squad; this's a bunch of gangbangers and a half-assed Shmendrick who got lucky takin' on the witch when she was off her game," Hightower snarled contemptuously; "Fuck! It's been forever now, and not a single one of 'em even come close to shakin' Sil's…whatever the hell it is that he did. And he did that shit while ridin' the bus two boroughs over."

"How do you know I'm not just that good, huh?" Silhouette asked via commlink, his tone mock-accusatory.

"I know ya are buddy, but I was usin' you to make a point."

"Well then, what're they after comin' here?" Razorback asked. Muted gunfire resounded in the background of his vocal transmission.

"I dunno; I'll ask the next time I get ahold of somebody." Running back to where Calypso huddled, Hightower reached down and scooped her up around the waist. When first lifted into the air, she panicked; screaming, flailing, and striking wildly with her eyes closed. "What's with the shootin'; everybody okay up there?"

"Four drones blew out the windows. Two are do…three are down," Razorback reported.

"Will you knock that shit off?!" Hightower snarled, wincing as Calypso kicked the shallow wound in his stomach. "It's me dammit!"

Instead of standing around waiting for the realization to sink in, he bolted for the exit. After a few moments the kicking subsided and Calypso grabbed hold of his collar, pulling herself in tight against his chest. Hightower gritted his teeth as she dug her shoulder into the hole in his right pectoral.

The barrage of audio-visual stimuli was still ongoing according to the video feed provided by Silhouette's backdoor access to the intruder's network. Four of the six attackers inside the building were still alive, but currently unable to continue fighting. Of the four drones that infiltrated the fourteenth floor, it appeared only one remained functional. Only the two unknown people outside the building remained unaccounted for.

Away from the center of the building the floor was more level and bereft of standing water. Without the water's slick slime, Hightower was able to run at full speed and capable of maneuvering with greater ease. In addition, the dim light filtering in through the open windows made navigating through the obstacles significantly more straightforward.

"Yuki just got the last drone, so we're done up here. How 'bout you?" Razorback enquired. He sounded out of breath and there was tension in his voice.

"I've got about ten or so meters 'til the exit and I've got weeping beauty here with me. I'm guessin' at the very least the rigger and whoever's callin' the shots 're outside, so that'll be fun." Hightower ripped through a set of mangled studs to get through a particularly tangled section of debris en route to the exit. "Everybody come out in one piece up there?"

"Well…no, not really," Razorback responded. The sound of him sucking air was audible through the commlink's connection.

"Whatdya mean?!" A multitude of terrible scenarios ran through Hightower's head.

"Doc took a round in the thigh and his two grunts bought it runnin' for the elevator. They got slotted waitin' for the car," Razorback informed him, assuaging his fears slightly. Being held responsible, even indirectly, in the death of a well-known street doctor would be a serious problem. "That little blonde girl took one in the head runnin' after seein' them go down."

"He gonna make it?" Hightower asked.

Razorback told him, "Yeah, he's fine; ya know, more or less."

"Everybody else good?"

Razorback sighed; "I took a slug through the wrist. Hurts like hell."

"You ain't gonna pass out, are ya?" Hightower asked, knowing the answer was 'no'.

"Nah, I'm fi—"

Silhouette interrupted Razorback before he could finish his sentence. "Sorry Pau-er, sorry, Razor', but they've found a work-around for my virus, Hightower. They're comin' for ya, big guy," Silhouette paused, "Well, actually I can't tell if they're comin' for you or runnin' for the door. I guess it doesn't really matter does it? I mean, if you're in the way, they're still gonna shoot you."

"I'm on my way!" Razorback shouted. "The elevator is already here, so I'll rendezvous ASAP."

"Wait, Goddammit; you're no good bleedin' all over the fuckin' place! Just stay up there and have the Doc look at it. I'll manage," Hightower argued futilely.

"It's my off-hand; I'm Oscar Mike."

"For fuck's sake, man! I didn't even get all the way through Boy Scouts, I don't…" Hightower snarled.

"No, I will go. Sit down and allow the bleeding stop," Yukihime said with a hint of menace. "This will be over shortly."

"Fine. Watch yer ass, okay?" The reluctance in Razorback's voice was noticeable but nonetheless he did not attempt to argue.

"Hai, hai; yatte mimashou."

"Jesus, 'Tower, you'd think after all this time you'd've picked up at least a little of the jargon." Mercy's cotton-mouthed voice broke into Hightower's impending rant, "He was trying to tell you that he was movin' out."

"Welcome back girly; guess you didn't die after all. Sil, I owe you 20 nuyen," Hightower chuckled.

"Wait. What? I didn't bet you…" Silhouette stammered, caught off-guard and confused. "Mercy, I'd never bet about y—"

"It was a joke, dumbass. Fucking Christ, you people are humorless. Anyway, how're ya felling, Blinky?" Hightower asked, using the nickname he knew she hated.

"I feel like shit; thanks for asking. And for the umpteenth time, stop calling me 'Blinky'. Please?" Mercy's speech was groggy and a little slurred, likely a combined aftereffect of the tranquilizer patches and Barbarossa's anesthetic.

"It is always like this with your team?" Yukihime asked over the background noise of the elevator. "All the jokes, insults, and banter; even during a serious situation?"

Razorback: "No."

Mercy: "Yes."

Silhouette: "Unfortunately, yeah, it is."

Hightower: "Nah."

Yukihime: "Interesting."

"On off weekends we play the Chuckle Hut in Glow City; you ought to come check it out. Just make sure you wear your lead panties," Hightower joked. Another spray of bullets rattled throughout the area where he ran, all but one harmlessly struck debris. The final bullet came so close to his ear that he felt the breeze generated by its passing.

"You are a jackass," Yukihime replied without malice. "Besides, my lead panties chafe fiercely."

"That's why I don't wear any," Mercy asserted. Seconds passed in silence. "What? I'm the only who can't make a joke? You guys suck."

Yukihime giggled; "I think the imagery may have distracted them."

"Thank you," Mercy replied without the slightest hint of embarrassment or modesty.

Mercy → Hightower: Who the hell is that?! Razor' said she's a friend of yours?

Hightower → Mercy: Yeah, but I didn't bring her here. She came with the doctor. Don't worry about Yuki she's alright

Mercy → Hightower: If you say so

"Anyway, Mercy's bare ass aside; Sil, I lost the feed from those clowns," Hightower said as one after another the four remaining video feeds went dark.

"Watch out; they purged their network and're workin' off of direct-line calls now. Since his drones are down, I think the rigger switched to deckin' and is reworking their security. I don't think I can pull-off the same trick twice and get away with it," Silhouette cautioned. He completely bypassed the side-conversation revolving around Mercy's undergarments.

Hightower reached the exterior wall and pressed himself up against the mildewed concrete. From his vantage point near the exit, two unmarked white vans and two bullet-riddled corpses were visible in the street. The vans were diagonally parked against the curb with their engines running. The corpses lay face down, having gotten shot in the back.

"Well, how soon can you pull a different trick?" Hightower asked nervously. "I'm at the exit now and all I see is two white molester vans and nobody's around."

"What in the world is a molester van?" Yukihime asked uneasily.

"You know… white van, no windows, always has lotion and zip-ties in the passenger seat," Hightower explained.

"Ugh…" Mercy groaned.

"You are disgusting," Yukihime scolded. The distaste was evident in her voice even with her clipped accent.

"It's not like I'm the only guy who calls 'em that!" Hightower moaned defensively.

"Ha! My dad used to call 'em that too. I haven't heard that in years," Razorback said, suppressing a pained laugh.

"See!"

"I wish Pango was there; she knows integration nodes so much better than I do," Silhouette interjected, once again neatly sidestepping another pointless side conversation.

Hightower peeked out from around the corner to get a better look at the street. "She knows what?"

"The matrix setup riggers use for their little mobile bases. They've usually got 'em loaded with ice and they're typically a royal pain to crack on the fly." Silhouette sounded frustrated. "Plus there's so much damn static comin' from the crowd on this bus and then you add-in the fact that I can't run in VR—"

"Why not?" Yukihime asked, interrupting him. The distinctive sound of her metal-soled shoes was easily-identifiable running through the corridor at the bottom of the elevator.

"He can't just leave his body all limp on a bus full a strangers, now can he?" Razorback pointed out. His voice sounded drained and weary and he was still breathing in long, ragged breaths.

Yukihime said, "Oh, I suppose that does make sense. I usually don—"

"Can we focus, please? I've got about ten seconds before people start shooting me in the ass again and I wanna know what I should do about the two vans possibly full of assholes and robots."

Hightower peeked around the empty door frame again, trying to get a better perspective on the situation. There was no overt activity on the street, but it was the people inside the vans that worried him.

"Make a break for it?" Razorback suggested.

"I've still got Pocahontas; I can't watch my ass and hers if these numb-nuts start shootin'," Hightower argued, immediately vetoing the idea. From the rear, small caliber bullets at range posed no significant threat to either him or Calypso, who he shielded with his back. However, a frontal assault would make it difficult, if not impossible, to protect her and defend himself.

"No, its fine; I'm fine. Put me down." Calypso twisted in Hightower's arms, attempting to wriggle free.

"It's about fuckin' time; my friggin' arm was fallin' asleep carrying your dumb ass." Hightower lowered Calypso to the ground. With her feet firmly on the concrete, she reached over and nonchalantly wiped her face and nose on the untucked hem of his shirt. "Did you just blow your nose on my shirt?!"

"It's already got bullet holes and blood on it; what difference does it make?" Calypso made another pass over her face and then let the soiled material drop from her hand.

"Unfuckingbelievable…"

"Welcome back. How're you feelin'?" Silhouette asked with genuine concern in his voice.

"I'm fine. Let's just talk about it later, okay?" Calypso's response was laden with embarrassment and she was particularly curt.

A gurgling scream immediately followed by gunfire reverberated throughout the cavernous space of the ground floor. Seconds later a second, a more muted squeal followed. "I have eliminated two people attempting to escape. I still am trying to locate the remainders," Yukihime informed everyone on the group channel.

"Damn, that was pretty fast; I'm impressed."

"You should not be. They are weak and frightened," Yukihime rebuffed Razorback's praise, sounding disappointed. "It was not a satisfying fight."

Hightower leaned out of the doorway, attempting to get a good look at the street without exposing too much of his body. Even with his limited view he was able to watch as both vans backed away from the curb in unison.

"They're making a run for it!" Hightower shouted. "Killin' off those last two must've flipped the 'oh-shit' switch. They're must be cuttin' their losses!"

Hightower dashed out of the doorway and sprinted towards the nearest of the two vans. Its rear tires screeched and spewed clouds of black smoke as it accelerated beyond his grasp. Despite his augmented muscles and prodigious natural strength, he was unable to overtake the van as it sped off.

Three shots rang out and the rear van coasted to a stop less than a block away. A fountain of steam gushed from the hood while a stream of oil drained out from beneath the chassis. Two more shots were fired and both tires on the side facing the building ruptured with a violent hiss.

Calypso flattened herself against the building's exterior wall. Hightower reflexively crouched and covered his head – unintentionally emitting a shrill feminine yelp as he did so.

Mercy's snorting, derisive laughter saturated the commlink's channel, "You okay down there _tough guy_?"

"Fuck! You scared the shit outta me!" he yelled.

"I can tell," Mercy barely managed to speak while holding back her laughter, "Now, why don't you dry your eyes and hitch up your skirt and go check out who's in that van?"

"Ya know what; blow me. I didn't even know you could get outta bed, let alone fire a fucking gun. Sue me for being surprised," Hightower grumbled defensively as he stomped towards the van.

Moving cautiously towards the disabled vehicle, he paused just shy of the rear door.

"Anyone have any idea how I'm supposed to do this without getting shot in the gut?" Hightower asked, looking up at the windows on the 14th floor.

Yukihime: "Explain the situation to the people inside the van, perhaps they can be reasoned with and any further bloodshed can be avoided." Hightower suspected she was attempting sarcasm.

Silhouette: "Rip the door off the hinges and use it as a shield!"

Mercy: "I'd say to open it from the side and let me cover you, but I feel like I'm gonna puke again. Besides, I'm shooting righty."

Razorback: "The Doc says that the security guys he had down there had AK's that weren't coded, so you could grab one of them."

"This is ridiculous; let me do it," Calypso snarled, glaring hatefully at the immobile van, and by extension, the people inside it.

Holding her arms wide as if in prayer, elbows locked and palms flat; Calypso looked to the sky. She gazed upward as she chanted a noiseless song; her mouth forming words that Hightower could neither hear, nor decipher. There was a subtle suggestion of dancing as she rhythmically tapped her heel and bobbed her head, her matted hair and filthy clothes rippling in a nonexistent wind.

Hightower felt the change in the air. The fresh scent of the ocean overpowered the musty stench of fetid water in which they were both soaked. A warm breeze tugged at his clothing while the air filled with the cries of seagulls and thunderous booms of crashing waves.

The spike in air pressure was so pronounced that it forced his ears to pop.

"Wátkwa'na!" Calypso shouted, pointing at the disabled van. Hightower felt himself buffeted aside by an invisible stream of salty air that rushed past and rocked the van.

Other than the absence of the strange wind and easing of air pressure, nothing seemed to happen.

"That's it; that's you _doing_ _it_? I shoul—" Hightower's mockery got interrupted by a cacophonous eruption of steel and shattering of glass. " _Jesus Christ!_ "

Wind howled inside the crippled vehicle, nearly knocking it on its side. The steel roof and sides of the van bulged outwards forming uneven convex domes. At the same time, all of the van's doors ripped free from their locks and wrenched open, leaving them dangling from twisted and broken hinges. Likewise, every window exploded outward simultaneously. High-tensile, shatter-resistant glass sprayed the street like confetti.

Thanks to the reaction enhancers grafted to his spine, Hightower was able to turn his head and cover his eyes before getting blinded by a shotgun-like blast of glass shards. Though unable to penetrate his hide, each tiny sliver still felt like a needle jabbing into his skin.

Shaking the glass out of his hair, he slowly turned to look at Calypso where she leaned over with hands on her hips, slightly bent at the waist and breathing heavily. "What do ya think, super-star; did we maybe put a little too much zip on the ball?"

"Shut-up! I've had a shit day and I lost my cool for like, a second. Like that doesn't happen to you all the damn time?!" Calypso shouted, red in the face. Her right hand was still grasping her hip but the left pointed an accusatory finger up at Hightower.

He responded with a tight-lipped grin and a single finger held aloft in a 'wait a second' posture. Walking over to the van, he reached in and dragged out a crumpled corpse. It was evident from the way the body dangled in Hightower's grasp that the majority of the bones were shattered. Hefting the corpse up onto his shoulder, he walked around to the driver's side and removed another set of pulverized remains.

"How's about we go back inside off the street and then we can chat about the difference between me and you losin' our tempers? Hmm?"

"Don't forget to grab the Doc's guys out there, too," Razorback reminded him over the commlink's group channel, "Plus, ya know, there's the four KIA inside."

"Izzat everybody then?" Hightower asked testily while hefting the doctor's two guards by their belts. He silently pointed to their unfired weapons with a jut of his chin. Calypso collected each rifle from the street and slung them over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but I lost two in the dark. I believe that they escaped through the windows during the confusion." Yukihime hopped out through one of the many empty ground floor windows and started voraciously gulping mouthfuls of cleaner air. Despite running in the dark through the morass of the building's interior, she was more or less clean.

"Whatever. I don't think it matters." Hightower shrugged, expressing indifference and at the same time adjusting the bodies he carried. "We'll just have'ta wait 'til Sil gets here to comb through these guys' 'links to see who the fuck they are."

"Yeah, I should be there in about ten minutes. Ya know, not to sound like a sissy or nothin', but, can someone come meet me at the bus stop?" Silhouette asked. His embarrassment came through in the sheepish tone of his voice. "For lots of reasons I don't feel like walking the streets of Clyde's Hill all by myself right now."

"I'm sorry, but I look awful and I need to sit down for a little while," Calypso declined apologetically. Her shoulders drooped as she carried the AK-97s back into the dim interior of the building.

Razorback sighed and grunted; "I'll go. Doc gave me a shot an' the bleedin' stopped, so I'm feelin' okay."

"I've got this busted arm and an IV," Mercy yawned, "Otherwise I'd be more than happy to run over there for you. Anybody gives you any shit, just tell 'em you can have a ass-kicking put on lay-away for 'em."

"Give me a minute, buddy. Let me get these poor bastards in off the sidewalk and then I'll meet ya," Hightower offered, looking in the general direction of where the bus would be dropping Silhouette. Though the first – and only – stop the bus would make in Clyde's Hill was almost two kilometers away and obscured by hills and buildings.

"But didn't you get shot?"

"Yeah, but they're all sissy-ass small caliber shit; there's nothin' to worry about." Hightower looked at the bloody holes in his shirt and shrugged, dismissing the wounds as minor; "I don't think anything even got through the plates. Though for _damn_ sure I'm getting' my hands on some antibiotics or somethin'."

"There is no reason for that; I will go. All of you need to rest and I doubt the doctor will be in any additional danger in the foreseeable future. Besides, I believe I am most likely the only person here who does not appear suspiciously bloody and covered in filth." Yukihime walked up behind Hightower and inserted the wakizashi's scabbarded blade into one of the rear belt-loops on his pants. Similarly she removed the jutte hanging at her hip and tucked it into his back pocket. The smaller tanto she concealed in the left sleeve of her leather coat.

"That's nice of you, Yuki, but, um, we've never actually met before," Silhouette protested.

"Tell ya what, man. If more'n one little Jap S 'n' M ninja shows-up lookin' for your skinny ass; you pick your favorite and just run with it." Hightower laughed while skipping aside to avoid a half-hearted kick from Yukihime.

"Must you be so crude? I am trying to be helpful to _your_ friend, and yet you still feel the need to be vulgar and disrespectful." Yukihime shook her head in disgust as she walked away; one hand worked her commlink's controls while the other slipped her AR goggles into place over her eyes.

Mercy told Yukihime, "You get used to it; eventually you develop, like, an asshole filter and can only hear about ten percent of what comes out of his mouth."

"Ten percent… really? Is that much truly necessary?" Yukihime executed a perfect half-pirouette to briefly walk backwards and extend her middle finger towards Hightower. Once she was sure he noticed, she spun back around and continued walking normally.

"Ha ha ha." Hightower grinned and walked into the building carrying all four corpses. Calypso followed at a modest distance, seemingly unaffected by returning to the scene of her previous breakdown. "Why's everybody gangin' up on me?"

"'Cuz you're such an easy target," Mercy informed him.

"Can we just get all the evidence in off the street, please?" Razorback begged in an exasperated tone. Hightower was able to hear the weariness in the ork's voice.

"Don't worry 'bout it, man. Nobody's gonna call the cops in this shit-hole of a neighborhood," he said.

"Maybe–maybe not; I just wanna get this situation under control as fast 's possible," Razorback rebutted. His obsession for micromanagement prevented him from relaxing while a crisis was anything less than 100 percent under control.

"I called Pango and she's sending out a tow-truck to get that van," Mercy informed everyone. It was apparent she was trying to assuage some of Razorback's inherent worry.

"See, everything's under control. Relax. We've just gotta find out who these assholes are – _were –_ and what they want with Blinky and we're good to go," Hightower said while tromping through the murky interior of the building. Without the distraction of getting shot at, his thermographic visual filter was more than enough to navigate the hazards of the ground floor. He placed temporary AR markers over the four dead Chulos by locating the heat signatures of their still-warm bodies.

"Why me? What makes you think this's got anything to do with me?" Mercy asked.

"This rattrap is your place, ain't it?" Hightower argued; "Maybe somebody's tired of you squattin' on their turf."

"It's not like I'm the only one here, ya know," she countered, a defensive edge creeping into her tone. "Maybe they came gunnin' for Barbarossa. You ever think of that?"

"I guess. Usually you end up startin' more shit than you settle by geekin-off a good street doc, though." Hightower was doubtful. If their goal was to kill Barbarossa, it made sense to target him while in the middle of a procedure, but not in the defensible home of a known shadowrunner – especially one like Mercy who had a reputation for paranoia and the tendency to shoot first and never ask questions.

"True," Mercy acknowledged.

"Didn't that one guy say he was a Chulo?" Razorback asked.

Hightower exhaled contemptuously; "Yeah. So what?"

"So? Anybody do work for the Chulos?" Razorback sounded slightly indignant at having to spell out his question.

Mercy: "Nope."

Hightower: "The fuck? Are you kiddin' me?"

Yukihime: "I have never heard of them before today."

Silhouette: "Nuh-uh."

"Well, I certainly haven't," Razorback said. "Besides, that's ballsy of a gang to try a hit onna 'runner team."

"Yeah, well, that's only true if they were after a team, which I doubt," Hightower reasoned. "I bet'cha they were after one of us and fucked-up gettin' the whole shebang."

"I guess that makes as much sense as anything else."

 **Chapter 14**

Razorback stood over the bodies Hightower retrieved from the ground floor. The two of them had moved the couches and recliner out of the way to make room under the lights for the corpses.

Excluding Barbarossa's three assistants and the two executed truck guards; each person in the line wore a balaclava and urban camouflage. However, it was obvious from even casual inspection that it was all brand new, off-the-rack surplus-store gear. Similarly, all the submachineguns and various sidearms Calypso piled-up were relatively new; the water spots from getting dropped in first floor's mud were the only signs of use. Even the salvaged commlinks were all disposable burner models.

Silhouette assured him that after he spent some time looking at Mercy's arm he would wring all the information possible from the commlinks. Currently, however, he sat next to the exam table where she returned to lie down after the firefight. A long, fiber-optic cable tethered his head and cyberdeck to her cyberarm.

He and Yukihime only recently arrived, having come up via the old executive elevator hidden in the building's north end – assumedly after Silhouette showed her the route. Razorback was concerned about the ease of which Yukihime had integrated into their team's inner workings. Without prior vetting, she received access to their secure commlink channel and the location of Mercy's home and its private entrance; she even managed to ingratiate herself with several members of their team despite many of them having never met before. Hightower trusted her, and that was a significant point in her favor – especially since the troll trusted so few people – but Razorback still felt it was his responsibility to ensure they were not inviting danger into their midst.

He massaged his sore wrist as he inspected the line of cadavers at his feet. One of the first things Calypso did – after catching her breath, of course – was to heal the two centimeter wide hole just below the palm of his left hand. Watching flesh magically knit itself back together of its own volition never ceased to amaze him. And he was grateful for the magical healing, which meant he would not need surgery to repair the numerous delicate bones in his wrist, but the itching it caused drove Razorback mad.

Realizing that it was pointless to stall any further, he knelt down to begin removing masks from the corpses. Hightower lined them up rather neatly and Razorback decided to just start at the beginning of the queue and work his way down. Pulling the mask from the first assailant, Razorback paused to stare for a moment, then rocked back on his heels and groaned "Sonofabitch..."

Hightower walked up to where he knelt and looked over his shoulder. "What's the matter?"

"You don't recognize this guy?" Razorback asked, holding the corpse's head aloft by its hair.

"Nope. Should I?" he asked while leaning down to get a closer look at the dead man's face. The troll's massive head and shoulders eclipsed the light coming from the overhead lamps.

"Yeah, ya should; this's the jerk-off we stole that little Polish girl from a couple'a weeks ago." Razorback remorselessly dropped the deformed head back onto the concrete floor. Gabriel del'Piaz' features were unmistakable, even when taking into consideration the damage inflicted by Calypso's magic.

Hightower struck a chemical match to light the cigar he held in his lips. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"He looks like shit."

Yukihime looked at Hightower with a quizzically disgusted expression and asked, "Where did you keep that cigar that you are smoking?" Razorback surmised that the question probably originated from Hightower's blood-stained and filth-encrusted clothes.

"Nature's pocket," he responded with perfect nonchalance.

Razorback grinned at Yukihime's wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of revulsion.

Hightower chuckled and pointed towards the kitchen. "There's a couple in a box ontopa the fridge. Ya want one, go ahead."

"I would. Thank you," Yukihime responded as relief washed over her face. Razorback watched her prance lightly towards the kitchen area.

"I can't see. Send me a pic." Mercy struggled to use her good arm to prop herself into an inclined position. It was a testament to the damage the leaking chemicals inflicted on her body that Silhouette was able to overpower her and force her back down. Razorback smiled at Mercy's disgruntled grimace while disseminating his cybereyes' video feed throughout the group channel. "Yep, that's him," she acknowledged.

"So, this is some sorta revenge kick then?" Hightower asked, his voice distorted by drawing on his cigar.

"Looks like it, yeah." Razorback nodded while going through del'Piaz's pockets. Like he expected, they were mostly empty; though he was able to find a rubber-banded bundle of nine certified cred sticks in his right front pants pocket. They were likely intended for distribution amongst his team upon completion of their mission; Razorback felt zero remorse about appropriating them.

"Paydirt!" Mercy shouted from the exam table. "Mama needs a new stabilizing gyroscope!"

"Then how the fuck'd he find us here?" Hightower asked while plucking the proffered bundle from Razorback's extended hand. He made sure to grin in Mercy's direction while tucking it into his own pants pocket.

"Not us – me. I'm tha only one anybody got a good look at. It musta been before I shot that wall terminal," Razorback hypothesized. He tried his best to recall the moment in the nightclub when he shot the terminal, but the whole scenario inside the office was an adrenaline-fueled blur.

"That doesn't make a whole lotta sense, Paul. It ain't like this's your place; how'd he know you were gonna be here? Plus, wasn't Jester in there with you, too?" Hightower argued.

"It was Mercy in the study with the carving knife!" Silhouette shouted glibly.

Razorback: "What?"

Yukihime: "I do not understand."

Mercy: "Huh?"

Hightower: "The hell're you talkin' about, man?"

"Doesn't anyone here ever go online just for fun? It's Clue; you know; the matrix game?" Silhouette asked, shocked and disappointed by their collective ignorance.

Razorback rolled his eyes; "No, I don't know." Crab-walking to the next body in line, he removed the balaclava to see if it too obscured a familiar face. When it turned out to be an unknown Hispanic woman, Razorback gladly tossed aside the mask and began rummaging through her pockets for identifiable items.

"It's great! You build an environment; typically it's a mansion for nostalgia's sake. Then you designate one person as the victim and – depending on how many people you have – some more people as accomplices. Everyone else is a player. One of the players gets chosen at random and has to kill the victim with something from the environment and the rest of the players have to deduce who, what, where, and how. The whole time the accomplices get to try and derail the players' investigations without revealing that they're accomplices."

"This is how you spend your free time?" Mercy's voice was ripe with condescension.

Razorback leapt to his feet as Mercy shrieked and grabbed her non-functional arm. Silhouette was maliciously grinning on the other end of their fiber optic connection. "Sorry, I didn't realize that Barbarossa left the pain receptors active. It won't happen again, I promise."

"I most certainly did not!" Barbarossa disputed. He leaned back in the recliner as Calypso magically eased the bullet from his thigh.

"You little shit!" Mercy swatted at Silhouette with an open-handed slap, only to reel back when the IV tugged in her vein.

Razorback's attention was then drawn to the crinkling of Yukihime removing the vacuum-sealed foil wrapping from one of Hightower's cigars. Spitting her gum into the wrapper, she threw both out in the empty cardboard construction drum that served as a garbage can.

As Yukihime bent over to the gas-powered camping stove in an attempt to light the cigar, Mercy pointed to the fold-out table and said, "Yo! Over there."

"Ah! Domo." Yukihime sifted through the numerous overflowing ashtrays hidden amongst the stacks of day-to-day necessities piled on the table. After shaking several empty cigarette packs, she eventually found one half-full and hiding a disposable lighter within.

"Hit me." Mercy held out her hand towards Yukihime. Nodding, Yukihime fished out the lighter, tapped out a cigarette, casually flipped it into the air, caught it in her teeth, and lit it before handing it to Mercy filter-first.

Mercy took a massive drag and seconds later exhaled a long, slow, blissful sigh.

Meanwhile, Yukihime clenched the massive, troll-proportioned cigar between her lips and drew hard against the lighter's flame. Her small frame required that she draw to the fullest extent possible to pull the smoke through the length of the cigar. It took her more than a minute of strenuous effort to get the huge cigar lit and to keep it burning.

.Mercy laughed so hard she descended into a serious coughing fit. Once it passed, she gave Razorback a wry smirk and said, "You guys're goddamned pigs, ya know that?"

Razorback was unaware that he had been inappropriately staring until he heard her. Quickly glancing around the room, he saw Hightower, Silhouette, and even Barbarossa quickly look away; two of the three had the decency to appear embarrassed.

"Aww, shut-up; you're just jealous," Hightower grunted accusingly. "I betcha if we could get Pocahontas over there to start lickin' a melted ice cream sandwich you'd hop right off'a that table to watch the show."

Calypso finished extracting the bullet from Barbarossa's leg, and the wound was beginning to heal. The effort required in mending Razorback's wrist, Hightower's numerous shallow wounds, and Barbarossa's leg drained her significantly. Breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, Calypso arched her back to stretch her cramped muscles. She exhaled a breathy, shuddering sigh at the tension release.

Hightower looked from Calypso to Mercy and then back again. "Never mind; we don't need the ice cream."

Mercy, meanwhile, craned her neck to look behind her where Calypso was sitting oblivious in her exhaustion.

Razorback coughed uncomfortably then asked, "Can we just focus on the dead guy here before he starts stinkin' up the joint? Are you about done with Rosie's arm, Dave?"

"Oh, yeah; I've been done. I deleted the corrupted program; DL'd and scrubbed compatible software from Ares' update node and then set-up a data-chain so it doesn't happen again," Silhouette informed him. He then looked down at Mercy lying on the table and said, "You should really have someone write a program specifically for this though; it'd be safer and you'd probably get more out of it."

"So then why're you still plugged into my arm?" Mercy asked, giving him a dirty look.

"It makes me feel close to you?"

"Unplug me you dumbass!" Mercy jerked the cable that connected the two of them free from her arm, leaving it dangling from Silhouette's cyberdeck.

"It's not like it matters; Barbarossa still has to put you back together and he's over there ogling Desi." Silhouette unplugged the cord and wound it end over end into a tight oval.

" _You_ can't do it?" Mercy couched her question in an overtly challenging tone. She punctuated it with a raised eyebrow visible through the wreath of smoke swirling above her head.

"Nope. Not even a possibility. I don't have a control rig or wires to run a medi-soft." Silhouette had either missed Mercy's attempted taunt or had simply chosen to ignore it.

"Gwen could probably do it, huh?" Mercy goaded not-so-subtly.

"If Barbarossa left his drones here, which I guess he might have to since his truck's gone," Silhouette responded, slowly walking around to the opposite side of the table. "She could probably work something out if she had the right 'softs and schematics for your arm. Might still be kinda sketchy though; there's probably a lot of hands-on-type stuff that the 'softs won't cover."

As Silhouette walked away from the exam table, he reached out and flicked the pack of cigarettes Yukihime left at Mercy's side onto the floor. He then followed that up by kicking the pack out of her reach.

"Dick move, Reynolds; dick move," Mercy muttered under her breath while leveling a squint-eyed stare at Silhouette's back.

"I'm sure Gwen can get them for you," Silhouette replied sarcastically without looking back.

"Gwen could do what?"

"Speak of the teeny-tiny devil! I thought you were downstairs with the tow truck." Hightower, who had moved next to Razorback to assist with the searching of the bodies, called out when he heard Pangolin's voice.

She came in alone through the north elevator. Though it was worlds safer than going through the first floor to use the freight elevator, it was still dangerous. Despite the situation appearing to be under control, Razorback felt that people should not operate alone – especially those members who were not combat specialists.

"Already done. The van's on the flatbed and heading back to the shop, so I thought I'd come up and see the fallout. So what'm I supposed to be doing now?" Pangolin asked as she walked into the light.

"Putting Mary's arm back together if Barbarossa won't," Silhouette informed her as he sat down at the table. One-by-one he began to investigate the pile of commlinks looted from the dead.

"Maybe, but you're going to have to pirate me a 'soft or else you're going to have to foot the tab for a legit copy. I'm not made of money," Pangolin said off-handedly while she investigated the medical drone suspended over Mercy.

"That's fine."

As Pangolin looked over the small medical drone with a connoisseur's intensity, Razorback received a text: Who's the chick smoking the table leg?

Razorback → Pangolin: She came with the doc but it turns out she's good friends with Vince

Pangolin → Razorback: Is it OK to talk around her?

Razorback → Pangolin: I guess. Everyone else is

Pangolin → Razorback: Doesn't that make you nervous?

Razorback → Pangolin: Actually it does, yeah. I'm going to take a look at her later, but for now I think it's OK

Pangolin looked over at Razorback with a dubious expression after the conclusion of their brief textual conversation. Deciding not to press the issue with so many other important things currently on the table, he returned her glare with a forced smile and raised eyebrows.

"That won't be necessary; I came here to do a job and I intend to do so. I was merely taking advantage of the time I had available while the young lady healed my leg to make some calls about reacquiring my missing truck." Barbarossa grunted while getting up out of the recliner. Razorback watched as he returned to the chair next to Mercy; he favored his injured leg, but was completely ambulatory. He was never anything less than astonished when witnessing a skilled magical healing and wished, once again, that he could convince Calypso to join their team on a permanent basis.

"Any luck with that?" Mercy asked the doctor.

"Luck? No…no luck," he said softly. "Though my truck, and my property, appears to be heading towards Puyallup. I have already made preliminary arrangements to have my possessions returned." Barbarossa shooed Pangolin away from his drone and the tray of parts that comprised the bulk of Mercy's defunct arm. Sitting down, he reinserted a cable into the datajack behind his ear and subsequently into the cyberdeck he retrieved from the tray at the side of the exam table. "Don't move, please. I would prefer to not have to administer another dose of sedative so soon, if at all possible."

"Ready when you…Never mind," Mercy said, looking up at the drone's whirling arms and Barbarossa's catatonic body.

"Chulos run a cathouse down in Puyallup, don't they?" Hightower asked. He tugged the sticky mask off the mage whom earlier he had fatally kneed in the head. A wet squelching sound accompanied the tearing of the fabric.

Yukihime: "No idea."

Razorback: "I think so, yeah."

Mercy: "I think I remember hearing something about that, yeah."

"I love those things," Pangolin mentioned distractedly. She leaned on her elbows, wholly engrossed in watching the drone meticulously pick through the parts arranged on the tray.

Conversation came to an immediate stop. With the exceptions of Calypso, who lay on one of the couches catching her breath, and Silhouette who was wholly immersed in virtually reality investigating the commlinks; everyone slowly turned to look at Pangolin.

"You love…cathouses?" Razorback asked suspiciously.

"What? No! Chulos. Especially when they're right outta the oil and the sugar melts into the creases and the edges are all crispy," Pangolin explained as she watched the drone work. It began reattaching the vasohydraulic tendons surrounding the newly-replaced battery in a whirl of tiny mechanical arms.

Mercy: "That's a churro…"

Hightower: "That's a wetback donut, you retard!"

Razorback: "I think you're thinking about a churro, Gwen."

"What?" Pangolin looked up to see everyone else staring at her.

"The Chulos are a gang outta CalFree with a chapter down in Carbonado. Before Vince geeked their mage, he shouted about bein' a Chulo," Razorback informed her.

A pink blush crept into Pangolin's cheeks. "Didn't you say there were some rotos you needed me to look at somewhere around here?"

"Yeah, there's four roto-copters scattered 'round over there." Razorback pointed in the general direction of where he and Yukihime had fought – and then destroyed – the four drones. "I'm almost done here; can you go give her a hand with those, please?" he asked Hightower, indicating Pangolin with a jerk of his head.

Hightower chuckled while walking after Pangolin into the darkened area of the 14th floor. "Only if she promises not to deep fry me and cover me in sugar."

"Degenerate; you'd probably like it," Mercy shouted after him.

"These suck!" Silhouette exclaimed in disgust, having obviously returned to his physical body; "There's nothing on 'em except the contact information for the other 'links in the network." He yanked out the fiber-optic cable that joined his cyberdeck with the appropriated commlink. He then gently placed the cyberdeck on the table to his left and removed a second cable from the jack in his head.

"So, what do we do now?" Razorback asked, looking at both Silhouette and Mercy.

"Nothing to do now but hock it all and divvy up the cash," Mercy replied excitedly.

Walking over to the sink to wash his hands, Razorback asked Mercy, "Aren't you worried 'bout how they found your place? Usually that's the kind of drek that'd keep you up nights."

"It would…it will," she replied testily. "Don't worry, when I find the asshole in charge I'll put a twelve-seven through his belly for my trouble, but I'm strapped and the doc's gonna wipe me out."

"I'm sure you can work something out; Desi _did_ heal-up his leg." Silhouette spun his chair around so that his view encompassed both Razorback at the portable slop sink and Mercy on the exam table. "Besides, if it turns out he brought them here, well…that's gotta be worth something, right?"

"I think that'd probably be something between him and Desi, not me. I'm thinking he's probably not going to be in a mood to cut me any slack after losing three helpers and a truck full of med gear." Mercy twisted her head in order to see Silhouette seated at the table. "Dave, can you _please_ get me my smokes?"

Silhouette grinned and retrieved the pack from beneath the catch-all table in the kitchen area. "Only 'cuz you asked so nicely."

"Thank you. Help me out here; I don't want to jostle around while he's working."

Wordlessly, Silhouette removed a cigarette and placed it in Mercy's lips before applying the lighter to the tip.

Mercy looked up at him with a smile and said, "You're my hero."

Yukihime, who had been silently leaning against the refrigerator, suddenly said, "I have been thinking about how it would be very unpleasant to ride next to a corpse."

"You know you're not supposed to inhale cigar smoke, right? Shit'll starve your brain of air," Hightower heckled. He carried three of the four roto-drones towards the freight elevator, and with perfect timing walked within earshot to make a snide comment.

Yukihime sighed before continuing, "The gang called Chulos is from the CFS, yes?"

"Yeah?" Razorback replied, wondering about Yukihime's line of inquiry.

"The doctor's driver was Latino and spoke with a very thick accent. Often, when he and I were forced to work together, I needed to ask him to repeat himself slowly so that I might understand what he was saying."

"Yyyeeaaahhh?" Razorback started to see where Yukihime's train of thought was headed.

"Were the driver killed, why would his killers not dump his body in the street? Why leave it inside the truck?" Yukihime conjectured while snubbing out the cigar on her heel. It impressed Razorback that she managed to smoke fully-half before needing to take a break. "Does it not make more sense that Primo was an accomplice and not a victim?"

"So he shot Barbarossa's guards in the back and then stole his truck?" Mercy conjectured.

"That's great, but whatsit got to do with Paul or any of us, really?" Hightower asked as he and Pangolin approached from the direction of the freight elevator.

Razorback pointed to where Gabriel del'Paiz's body lay on the concrete. "How much ya wanna bet it's got somethin' to do with that asshole over there?"

"Gabrield del'Piaz holds dual-citizenship in the UCAS and Aztlan. Records say that he's been arrested a bunch of times in the CAS and UCAS – mostly in relation to smuggling, drug trafficking, racketeering, bribery, and extortion. According to UC/CAS-ODB he's never been convicted," Silhouette said, as though reading off a cue card. "I have an agent data-mining, and I should have something more concrete in a little while once it sifts through the aggregate."

Hightower pointed to the line of bodies laid out on the floor in the living area. "Look, I don't wanna be _that guy,_ but what difference does it make? He's fuckin' dead. It ain't like he's gonna give us too much more trouble."

"Yeah, but still; how did he find Paul here and have all this set-up so fast? Don't you want to know?" Pangolin asked while nimbly climbing a chair to sit on the corner of the kitchen table. Using the table as a seat allowed her to be at relative eye-level with everyone in the room except Hightower.

"Two weeks isn't really that fast, actually," Silhouette said offhandedly. "Especially considering how poorly it turned out. You'd think with that much time to plan he'd of come up with something better than charging straight in."

"Who cares? He's dead. He lost. Now let's sell his shit and chuck his ass in the Sound before someone comes looking for 'im." Hightower made a 'heave-go' gesture for emphasis.

"Are you not at least curious who might come looking for him?" Yukihime took a seat at the table across from Silhouette, bookending Pangolin. From somewhere in her leather coat she produced a crumpled package of stim-gum. A burst of pleasant cherry scent was immediately overpowered by Mercy's ever-widening halo of smoke.

Hightower shook his head; "No."

"Seriously?"

Releasing an explosive exhalation, Hightower said, "Ok look; let's say that rigger, Primo – which is a fucking faggot-ass name by the way – was connected to these dumb bastards. So what? What's he gonna do, come lookin' for revenge? He's probably scared shitless 'cuz he got a boatload of his 'banger buddies killed and has nothing to show for it. He's not coming back here."

A text message from Silhouette distracted Razorback's attention from the back-and-forth of the conversation: I found something about Barbarossa that might be relevant. Should I say something with Yukihime here or wait?

Razorback → Silhouette: Would it matter?

Silhouette → Razorback: She's working for him, right?

Razorback → Silhouette: True. I don't think she has any loyalty to him though. I got the impression that she's anxious to get out from under him

Silhouette → Razorback: It's your call. Usually you're pretty tight-lipped about stuff

Razorback → Silhouette: I think if she asked Vince he'd tell her anyway, so go ahead

Silhouette → Razorback: OK

"Hang on a sec, my data-miner found this and I think you guys should see it," Silhouette said loudly.

An ARO blinked in the corner of Razorback's HUD. Mentally commanding it to open caused several matrix documents to arrange themselves in a line at the top of his field of vision. The first was an Aztlan wanted posting offering a bounty of 10,000,000 Aztlaner pesos for information leading to the arrest of David Campos. An Aztlan ID photo and multiple security vid clips all showed what appeared to be a much younger Barbarossa. The crimes listed in the warrant included: willful negligence, manslaughter, fleeing the jurisdiction, resisting arrest, operating machinery under the influence of alcohol and falsifying medical records.

All remaining documents were news feeds referencing an unnamed Aztechnology executive's young daughter dying during routine surgery at a hospital in Tenochtitlàn. An inquest determined that the surgeon, David Campos, performed surgery while under the influence of alcohol and the daughter's death was consequently ruled a homicide. Razorback skimmed the documents, finding numerous retellings of the same story – all of which reported David Campos fled the country and is still a wanted fugitive.

Razorback minimized the feeds and activated his own search agent program. The agent appeared as a flawless version of stereotypical human secretary: white, female, early twenties, glasses, long hair in a bun secured with pencils, and overly attractive in a subdued fashion. She was even holding an archaic paper notepad.

"How may I help you today, sir?" The agent transmitted its voice directly to the tympanic speakers attached to the small bones in Razorback's ears, making it inaudible to anyone else.

Do a search for documents with the names David Campos, Jorge Barbarossa, and Gabriel del'Piaz. English only.

"Will that be all for today then, sir?"

Actually, no. Find me some female ork replacement skins for you.

"If you aren't pleased with my appearance sir, there are numerous stock avatars available for you to choose from. Ares Macrotechnology prides itself on providing the fullest array of choices possible to our customers. Our company is the industry leader on software design with the modern metahuman in mind. Ares Macrotechnology doesn't care what you are, we care who you are!"

I've looked through the stock… Razorback suddenly realized he was about to enter into a discussion with the program. Begin searching

"Of course, sir." The agent program self-minimized to the corner of his HUD.

"You read that shit, Paul?"

"I skimmed it. I don't see what it has to do with any of this though." Razorback dried his hands on his pants while looking through the refrigerator for something other than recycled rainwater water to drink.

"What'd'ya mean? You got a scumbag Azzie national, LA street gang, and an Azzie doctor with a bounty on his head; there's no way they're not in it together," Hightower argued while gesticulating aggressively.

"It makes my teeth itch, but I'm with Vince," Mercy contended. "I say we wait 'til he's done here, ask him some questions, and then add him to the pile."

"How efficient; you get rid of the doctor _and_ your bill. I like it," Pangolin approvingly pointed out.

Razorback looked at the little dwarf sitting on the edge of the table gently kicking her feet and smiling. On the surface, her wild mop of short, corn silk curls, brilliant blue eyes, huge impish smile and dimples made her appear child-like and innocent, but Pangolin was in reality a stone-cold businesswoman. She made all her decisions based on the bottom line and Razorback respected her focus – even if it did make her appear more merciless than was strictly necessary.

"I must protest," Yukihime complained from her chair at the kitchen table; "I know that most of you do not know me, but please understand that I take my obligations very seriously. If your intent is to cause Barbarossa harm, I will do my best to intercede. I feel that there must be a better solution to your problem."

"Nobody's killin' anybody; don't worry 'bout it," Razorback declared to both the collective and Yukihime in particular.

"What the fuck, Paul?!" Hightower shouted, throwing his arms in the air. "Usually you're the one gripin' about how we've gotta be more careful and think about the consequences 'n' all that bullshit. Now all of the sudden you're this easygoin' motherfucker!?"

Razorback chuckled humorlessly; "There was zero chance of there not being something dirty about Barbarossa; he's a Seattle street doctor. No doc willingly gives up the corp-life and all that money to work in the fraggin' gutter. There was bound to be somethin' that _forced_ 'im to work the streets." Razorback shrugged dismissively as he emerged from the refrigerator holding a bottle of beer. Without bothering to look for a bottle-opener, he set the lip of the cap against the point of his exposed lower incisor and simply bit it off.

"True story," Pangolin agreed, nodding. She pointed to the beer in Razorback's hand and asked, "That guy have any buddies?"

"You're kiddin' me, right? That's all that's in there. There ain't any food, that's for damn sure," Razorback said while grabbing another bottle from the refrigerator and handing it to Pangolin. Despite the bottle looking as though it did not fit in her small hand, she placed the bottle cap against the lip of the table and easily bashed it open with her fist. Child-like countenance aside, dwarven strength was nothing to underestimate. Pangolin spent nearly her whole life working on machinery in one garage or another and was far stronger than she appeared.

"I guess. That's a pretty big coincidence though, don't you think?" Silhouette asked Razorback.

"I still vote for a five-five-six in the ear. Problem solved," Mercy said, pantomiming a pistol with her index finger and thumb. "By the way, you freeloading barbarians, there's a bottle-opener on the fridge."

"Jesus, you're a goddamned ghoul," Hightower exclaimed, shaking his head. "You just wanna skip-out on your bill."

"Better safe than sorry; am I right?" Mercy reasoned.

"You realize dealing with the consequence from killing a well-connected street doctor would be a nightmare, correct?" Yukihime was gamely attempting to become the advocate for logic and reason, which Razorback appreciated. She was far too new, however, to realize just how futile her attempts were. There was ebb and flow to their conversations – especially the important ones – and it took a while to pick-up the rhythm.

Razorback sighed and hung his head; "We're not gonna kill him, let it go. Just wait 'til he's done and we'll have a conversation like normal people."

"Yeah? How many normal people you know have a pile of corpses in the living room one shy a dozen, huh?" Hightower asked sarcastically. He pointed at the line of bodies for emphasis.

Silhouette held up one finger as if scoring a match of some kind. "Point."

"Speaking of them; what're you going to do, Mary? You're not still going to live here, are you?" Pangolin asked while shaking her empty beer bottle in Razorback's direction.

"I only just started thinking about that, like, a second ago. Probably not. I hate to leave; it took me forever to get the joint set-up the way I like it, but it's fucked now," Mercy said. Twisting her neck in order to look at Pangolin, she asked, "Can I crash at the garage for a while 'til I get shit squared away?"

"Sure. ¥150 a week and you have to buy your own food." Pangolin rattled-off her conditions while smashing the cap off the second beer Razorback handed her from the refrigerator.

"Thank…wait, you're charging me?!" Mercy shouted in disbelief.

"Money doesn't grow on trees and neither do roofs," Pangolin informed her while taking a pull from the oversized-looking bottle.

"It takes balls to say that when drinking someone's booze," Hightower extolled. She responded by waggling her eyebrows while chugging away at the bottle.

"Yeah, but 150 a week is crazy…" Mercy protested plaintively.

"It's about the price of a coffin by the week," Silhouette informed her, "In fact, it's a little cheaper. Most coffin's go for about 200 a week."

"Paul?"

"Hell no!" Razorback slammed the refrigerator and turned to look at Mercy. "You remember the shitstorm you caused last time I letcha crash at my place?" He moved to stand on the side of the exam table. Staring down with his face above hers, he said, "Shondra tore into my ass for _days_ after she caught you and your little _friends,_ " Razorback made sarcastic air-quotes around the word friends, "in the livin' room."

"In my defense, you never told me she had a key."

"Yeah, it's my fault you brought a bunch a strung-out bimbos back ta my place 'nd then gave my daughter a crash-course in weird sex." Razorback emphasized 'my fault' by poking himself in the chest with his thumb.

"What do ya mean weird?!" Mercy squawked. "So now all of the sudden me being gay is _weird_?! I wish I known that—"

"Don't gimme that oppressed homo bullshit! There were four of ya and you were all fuckin' wasted! One of those girls was wearin' a goddamned mask, a leash and a collar – not to mention the-the _contraptions_ that were layin' around. That's what's weird!" Razorback shouted. "There's no way I'm getting my security deposit back; ya know that, right?"

"Okay, maybe I—"

Razorback just talked over Mercy's excuse, acerbically shouting, "But my favorite part was when ya tried to sit Keisha down 'nd explain the birds 'nd the birds to her."

"So? It's better than what Shondra did; she just shrieked at everyone!" Mercy argued. A slight flush had begun to creep into her chest and neck. Razorback was unsure if it was embarrassment or anger.

Gesticulating wildly, Razorback continued ranting; "You were buck-ass-naked 'nd blissed-out when you sat my nine year old on yer lap 'nd tried to explain how it was OK for consenting adults to—"

Mercy locked eyes with Razorback and started to sit up. "Well, shit; I thought it'd—"

Keeping her in place with a hand on her shoulder, Razorback asked, "She's nine and she's an ork; you didn't think it was weird when you made her sit on your lap 'nd she's bigger'n you?"

Hightower exploded in laughter and Pangolin had to force back a snicker.

"I thought it'd best if I explained what was goin' on..." Mercy trailed off.

"For one thing, that one girl couldn't have been more'n fifteen!" Razorback said accusingly.

"She told me she was eighteen," Mercy said indignantly. "You want me to start checkin' IDs now?"

"Whatever…you ain't stayin' at my place." Razorback threw up his arms in resignation and walked back to the fridge.

"How come I'm never invited to these parties?" Hightower asked Mercy, looking genuinely hurt.

"Sorry, big guy, team players only," Mercy explained while laughing.

"I don't play hockey but I'll watch a game every now and then…" Hightower pouted.

"Then how come I'm never invited, huh?" Pangolin asked playfully.

"Really, Gwen? I didn't think that'd be something you'd be interested in. Ya know, I hear dwarves can—" Razorback was unable to tell for sure whether Mercy was kidding or not.

Pangolin turned four shades of blush and sputtered, "It's not! I was kidding; I thought that was obvious! Dirty old broad…"

Mercy gave her a little wink and said, "Tease!"

"This is like a sociology experiment run amok. Can we figure out what we're doing with those guys before we delve into the world of trashy lesbian sex?" Silhouette pleaded.

"You don't need to qualify it, ya know," Mercy reprimanded.

"Sorry. But seriously, this probably isn't the time, right?" Silhouette argued. "Besides, it looks like Barbarossa's almost done and we haven't made any headway on how we're gonna handle this."

"Fair enough," Mercy said, conceding Silhouette's point. "So we're back to dumping 'em in the Sound?"

"It's either that, or, we stack them and all this shit into one big-ass pile and burn the place to the ground," Hightower confirmed.

"I vote for the Sound; starting a fire that big would draw a lot of attention," Pangolin decided as she hopped down off the table and started walking off into the dark.

"Yeah, no fires," Mercy agreed.

"Where're you goin', Gwen?" Razorback enquired as she disappeared.

"To the toilet!" Pangolin snarled from far outside the lighted area. "I can drink all you sissies under the table, but I've got this damned dwarven bladder. Miserable thing's the size of a peanut…"

"Well, regardless, we ain't dumpin' eleven people in the Sound, or anywhere else for that matter. I'm gonna make a call," Razorback informed everyone while walking off in the opposite direction of Pangolin.

"Who're you callin', Paul?" Mercy asked.

"Buddy of mine from back home," Razorback replied, still walking. As he passed the row of stiffening bodies, he noticed Calypso sleeping on one of the couches. From her shivering attempts to bury herself in the cushions, he assumed that the cool breeze coming in through the broken windows was probably making her uncomfortable. Turning around, he walked back and grabbed one of the sweat-soaked blankets off of Mercy's bed.

"I thought you were from Philly?" Hightower asked.

"That's right." Razorback gently tossed the blanket over Calypso in an attempt not to wake her. "He moved out here a couple years ago for work and we reconnected."

"Are you talkin' about—?"

"Just shut-up for a minute, alright?" he curtly interrupted Mercy's question.

 **Chapter 15**

Mercy watched Razorback walk off into the unlit area of the 14th floor. She was reasonably sure who it was that he planned on calling and understood why the prospect made his edgy.

"Do you know who he's talking to, Mary?" Pangolin asked, torso deep in her refrigerator again.

"I think so, but I'm nuAARRRGGGSSSSHHHHEEEIIIITTTT!" Searing pain coursed throughout Mercy's left arm. Every cybernetic muscle and bionic axon filament burned like mainlined acid as her arm convulsed and flailed spastically. The pain persisted for only the briefest of moments, but was so intense that for an instant she felt as though she might lose consciousness.

"Holy shit…you-you're supposed to …warn someone… before …you …before you do that…" Mercy panted, trying to catch her breath. Once the pain faded, she immediately recognized the sensation of the bionic nerves in her cyberarm reactivating. When the arm was first installed, the pain was so severe she blacked out for several seconds at multiple points in the procedure. This time was nowhere near as harsh, but was significantly more surprising.

"It's good to see that all the pain receptors are operating at peak efficiency and the biomechanical interface is functioning. The new battery appears to be accepting a charge and blood is moving throughout the hydraulic system unimpeded. It looks like you're fully functional," Barbarossa said as he pulled the wires first from the cyberdeck then his own head.

"Oh, my God; do you know how much that hurts?!" Cold sweat broke out over her entire body while Mercy was still trying to catch her breath. "I'm lucky I didn't piss myself."

"I imagine it was very painful, yes," Barbarossa answered while packing away the cables and cyberdeck in his rolling locker. "Would you say that it's about as painful as a bullet in the ear?"

"Actually a bullet in the ear wouldn't…oh, shit. You heard that?" Mercy asked sheepishly from where she sat at the edge of the examination table. Hopping down, she turned to look at Barbarossa's back as he knelt, packing away his tools.

"Yes, I did. Typically, I deactivate the audio receivers when I'm operating, that way I don't get distracted. But since I was caught off-guard during the earlier incident, I thought it'd be best to leave them on, this time." Pushing on his knees to help stand, Barbarossa turned to look at Mercy with a stodgy frown.

Mercy supposed that he was in his mid-sixties, with a noticeable paunch and slight stoop to his shoulders. He had the dark brown complexion and nearly black eyes of most native Aztlaners, but lacked their leathery skin resultant from overexposure to the harsh tropical sun. Instead of the normal black hair of Central and South America, Barbarossa possessed a fringe of wispy, red-brown tufts that hinted at his Spanish descent. And his wide face, large and slightly crooked nose, loose jowls, and constantly sour expression gave Mercy the impression of a perpetually surly bulldog.

"It wasn't personal, if that makes you feel better," Mercy explained unconvincingly while evincing a narrow shrug and a wry moue. Unhooking the IV bag from its pole, she walked over to the bureau where she kept the majority of her clothes and pulled out the bottom drawer with her toe.

"I'll sleep much better tonight knowing you were going to shoot me in the head not out of a personal grudge, but to get out of paying my fee," Barbarossa replied acerbically. Having finally finished loading all his equipment in the portable locker, he held his thumb against a biometric fingerprint scanner to lock the doors and drawers. The sound of multiple magnetic cylinder locks activating echoed throughout the fourteenth floor.

"Well, we didn't, right?" Mercy hung the IV bag from an exposed nail on the old wooden dresser, and then knelt down to access the three drawers near the base. Using her newly refurbished arm, she reached into the open drawer and withdrew a mostly-full carton of cigarettes. The act of bending down to reach the low drawer was physically taxing; her head swam from the combination of chemicals and sedatives and a wave of vertigo almost knocked her off her feet. Forced to brace against the dresser to keep from falling over, Mercy closed her eyes to stop the world from spinning.

"True, but only because cooler heads prevailed," Barbarossa rebutted.

"She's right doc; don't take it personal. Mary'd blow-up a busload of orphans if it meant she could spend more money on dope and bullets," Hightower chimed-in, in an uncharacteristic attempt to mitigate the situation. Mercy was not thrilled about the characterization, however.

"You make me sound like a monster for wanting'ta have a little fun before I die," she said.

"Nah, you're not a monster; you're whatcha might call a hedonist," Hightower corrected her while she used the dresser to pull herself to a standing position.

Pangolin tossed another empty beer bottle into the garbage can, then added, "And a sociopath."

"Sociopath, really? I mean, I can get behind hedonist, but still…a busload of orphans; that's a bit much, don't ya think?" Mercy asked, plopping on the edge of her bed to shake a pack out of the carton.

"Maybe," Hightower half-heartedly agreed, then countered with, "How 'bout a car full of slow middle school kids? You like that better?"

Barbarossa cleared his throat as a means of interrupting their banter. "Perhaps we should talk about our collective situation and the information you discovered? Where's Paul; I assumed he'd be here for this?"

"He's makin' a call. He'll be back in a minute." Mercy pointed into the unlit portion of the fourteenth story with a nod of her head. At the same time, she stripped the self-immolating clear plastic sheathe from off the pack of cigarettes. Immediately after she broke the seal, the chemically treated cellophane shriveled and disintegrated into harmless vapor.

"Sooo? What's the deal with the wanted posting and the murder, huh?" Hightower enquired bluntly while fixing the doctor with a harsh stare. Looking around, Mercy quickly realized that his question had focused the entire room's attention on Barbarossa.

"It'd probably be better to wait for Paul to come back; I'd like to not have to repeat myself." He paused in the middle of collapsing the portable exam table, then looked at the ceiling and sighed. "Sadly though, all those charges are legitimate."

"That was pretty straightforward of you, doc." Pangolin's statement had the air of a compliment.

"Yeah, no shit. Right to the point, eh?" Hightower agreed, glancing at Pangolin out the corner of his eye and raising an eyebrow.

"There's no reason to lie about it; it happened a long time ago." The doctor finished folding the examination table in half then snapped into-place a set of heavy-duty casters. "It's something I regret but can't change."

"See now, I can respect that. No use cryin' over moldy soy and all that bullshit, right?" Pangolin pointed at Barbarossa using a sharp, crisp, chopping motion for emphasis. "Take your lumps and move on."

"It's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially, yes," the doctor reluctantly agreed. With the vision in her left eye still swimming from the cocktail of tranquilizers and anesthetic, Mercy was still relying solely on her right eye as she looked at Barbarossa. No matter how hard he might try and mask his discomfort, the three ultra-high-definition cameras that comprised her right eye's vision made it impossible to hide miniscule facial tells and ticks. The slight furrowing of his brow between the eyes, minor downturn at the corners of his mouth, ever-so-slight pursing of the lips; even lacking color-vision she could differentiate miniscule shading variations that showed the formation of a subtle flush in his face.

"Everything's always a bit more complicated than that," Mercy said while fruitlessly searching amongst her bedding for a lighter that she knew had no chance of being there. Yukihime wordlessly tossed her one from the table. Plucking it from mid-air and lighting the cigarette between her lips, Mercy mumbled, "Thanks."

"Isn't it always?" Silhouette asked rhetorically.

"Ain't what always?" Razorback walked back into the circle of light and sat down not far from Mercy on the edge of the bed.

"We were just about to discuss the doc here's reputation as a lady-killer," Hightower answered with a wide grin in Barbarossa's direction.

"Vince." Razorback uttered Hightower's name in a drawn-out, disdainful tone. The look of displeasure on his face complimented it perfectly.

"What? Too literal?"

"No. Too tactless," Yukihime rebuked him, lowering her eyes and shaking her head.

"Whatever. It's all the same no matter how ya phrase it, right?" Hightower argued.

"I suppose there's a grain of truth to that," Barbarossa conceded. He wheeled the folded exam table to rest alongside the locked medical storage cabinet then leaned against it to catch his breath.

"Aaanyway. Who'd you call, Paul?" Mercy asked, trying to change the topic of conversation.

Razorback said, "A friend of mine's comin' here to pick up those bodies, so we don't have'ta worry 'bout disposing of 'em ourselves."

"What kind of friend ya got that does that kinda stuff, huh?" Hightower pinned Razorback with an accusing glare.

Mercy guessed he probably had the same hunch she did.

Razorback took a deep breath, sighed, then said, "I guess it's probably best if I tell you guys 'bout it now instead of you freakin' out when his crew shows up. The guy I called is a friend of mine – Percy – he runs a body shop out in the Barrens."

"Really?" Silhouette looked surprised. "I guess that's handy."

"Weird that you never mentioned him before now though," Hightower commented.

Barbarossa looked at Razorback critically, saying, "If it's the same Percy I'm thinking of, you're doing him a disservice by saying he works at a body shop, Paul. In fact, if it's the same Percy as I'm thinking of, it'd be more accurate to say he runs _most_ of the body shops in Redmond, wouldn't it?"

Razorback looked at Barbarossa in surprise. "You know Percy?"

"Of course I do. In my line of work it'd be strange if I'd not had business dealings with him, wouldn't you think? Though to say that I know him might be a bit of a stretch; at best we're associates." Barbarossa returned to the same chair where he had been during Mercy's procedure.

"You don't have a problem dealing with someone like that?" Pangolin asked while smashing the top off another beer bottle. From where she sat, Mercy could plainly see the bottle-opener magnetically affixed to the refrigerator.

"He's as ruthless as all his kind, but he's always been very reserved around me," Barbarossa informed her, then pointed to the beer in her hand. "Are there any more of those?"

Pangolin handed the still full bottle to Hightower and then hopped down to retrieve another of Mercy's beers from the refrigerator. Hightower relayed the bottle to Barbarossa who, shockingly, looked in Mercy's direction and said, "Thank you."

"If you're asking if I've ever felt unsafe when dealing with him, I'd say no." Barbarossa paused to take a long pull from his bottle. "At least no more so than dealing with a regular person; I never feared leaving a meeting with fewer limbs than I went in with, no."

Razorback winced at the doctor's explanation.

"What's he talkin' about?" Pangolin asked, looking at Razorback from in front of the refrigerator.

"When I said my buddy from back home came here for work, it was the truth. Percy ran Tamanous in Philly and got promoted to being one of the main guys here in Seattle two years ago."

"I guess that'd be a good guy to know if you find yourself in a pinch." Silhouette leaned back in his chair, webbed his fingers behind his head, and looked at the ceiling.

"You mean like we are right now?" Hightower enquired sarcastically.

"Right?" Silhouette chuckled and brought the chair back down to having all four legs on the ground.

Mercy looked at Razorback for a silent moment then said, "That's great right now, but I dunno if that's a guy I'd want coming over for Christmas dinner or anything."

"Hang onto that thought," Razorback instructed. "Percy's a ghoul, just so everybody knows. I don't want people losin' their shit when he shows up."

"You're invitin' one of those _things_ over here!?" Pangolin shouted, slamming the refrigerator door.

"He ain't contagious, right?" Hightower asked. "I got enough fuckin' problems gettin' into places as it is; I don't need to grow goddamned claws and go bald."

"Whatever. As long as he takes his meal to go, I don't give a shit. I don't want to see him eating though." Mercy grimaced at the thought of being forced to watch a ghoul tear into a corpse.

Silhouette pointed at Razorback's head meaningfully. "How is he, you know, upstairs?"

"What? You mean his mind?" Razorback snorted derisively; "He's fine. Hell, he's probably smarter than most of the people in this room."

"Speak for yourself," Hightower mumbled under his breath, which for the troll meant it carried as well as an average-sized person's voice.

"I was," Razorback assured him.

Barbarossa interjected, "It's true. On the occasions where I've dealt directly with Percy, he was lucid and well-mannered; even witty at times."

"That's great, but ya know they can snap at any time, right? One minute kissin' a baby and then next scarfin' the poor little bugger down." Hightower mimed kissing and then eating a phantom baby as he spoke.

"That's a myth; the Krieger strain destroys the mind immediately or not at all. Once the transformation is complete, if the ghoul retains his intellect he will do so permanently – unless it begins to starve, that is," Barbarossa explained.

"Yeah, what happens then?"

"They become more and more beastlike until they are able to feed. It's really no different from any other creature though, if you think about it; even base meta-humans will do terrible things if they're hungry enough."

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and wait for a cannibal to show up," Pangolin shouted while already en route to the northern elevator. "I've got room for one more; anybody need a ride?"

"Don't you wanna know what we decide to do about all this shit?" Mercy called after her.

"That's what commlinks are for. Or you can stop by the shop later and tell me about it, but I want to be long-gone by the time that _thing_ shows up." Pangolin stopped at the very edge of the light and turned to glare back at the people assembled.

"I'm kinda surprised, Gwen; I figured Vince'd be the one with the problem, not you." Mercy turned while remaining seated to look Pangolin in the eye as she spoke.

"Hey?! Fuck off; I'm as open-minded as the next guy," Hightower objected in his booming baritone.

" _I_ don't have a problem. They eat people, for God's sake! It's not weird that I don't want to be around one; what's weird is that _you_ _do_!" Pangolin's body posture - hands on hips, body slightly inclined forward, head animated – showed her disgust with the situation even more than her appalled tone.

"I don't know if I'd say that. They sure as hell aren't what I'd consider ideal company, but as long as it isn't me they're chewin' on, I guess I'm okay," Mercy argued, though it was plain to see that there was no possibility of diffusing the situation.

"Whatever; I'm outta here," Pangolin sputtered, infuriated. She spun on her heel, threw her arms up in the air, and stomped off into the dark towards the executive elevator.

"No offense, Paul, but I think I'm gonna go, too. It's not that I hate ghouls or anything, but they do kinda glitch me out," Silhouette said meekly. Plainly uncomfortable at possibly offending Razorback, he continued, "I'm not judging you or your friend; I just don't wanna be here while he's sorting through dead people for dinner later."

Razorback briefly smiled and said, "It's fine, Dave." He jerked his thumb in Pangolin's direction as means of punctuation.

"Thanks, Paul." Silhouette broke into a gangly sprint to catch up with Pangolin's head-start. "Wait up, Gwen!"

"You ok with that?" Mercy asked, looking at Razorback with the eyebrow above her right eye arched in emphasis.

"What? Oh, yeah." Razorback nodded. "Don't get me wrong; Percy's a good guy, but only 'cuz I know that from experience. If I never met him before, I sure as hell wouldn't want him creepin' up behind me in a dark alley."

Barbarossa looked in Yukihime's direction where she sat silently at the table. "I'm rather impressed with you, my dear. Historically, the Japanese have not been very accepting of HMHVV sufferers." While speaking, he raised the beer bottle in her direction. The modest gesture appeared to be an act of approval or possibly congratulations.

Yukihime shrugged casually, telling Barbarossa, "I break with a great number of Japanese traditions. I suppose that I have always been more, um…progressive? I think that is the right word?"

"In this case it would be, yes." Barbarossa nodded in agreement; "I find it rather pleasantly unexpected."

"Thank you?"

"Should we get down to it then?" Razorback asked, looking at the combined people remaining.

"Probably a good idea," Mercy agreed. "I keep getting distracted; but, should we call Jester? That night he was there with you when you busted up that nightclub. They might be after him, too."

Razorback sighed; "I thought about it, but I dunno. I guess at the very least I should tell him what we decide. But I don't wanna drag him into somethin' he doesn't need to be part of. Know what I mean?"

"Gotta say, if this's the level of skill they've got to work with; they'd need to send twenty of these jackholes to even get him outta bed," Hightower said while retrieving an empty whiskey bottle from atop the refrigerator. He then pointed the bottle at Mercy and asked, "You need this?"

"Nope." Mercy watched as Hightower stood over the trash can and effortlessly broke the neck of the bottle off at the base. He then began to snap off pieces of glass around the opening bit-by-bit.

"Yeah, he's a little monster," Razorback said, agreeing with Hightower. He too watched the troll whittle-away at the bottle with a quizzical expression.

"What about her?" Mercy asked, pointing at Calypso asleep on the couch.

"She's not a regular, either; but I guess there's no denying she's involved." Hightower looked in Calypso's direction as he walked over to the sink with his jagged-edged glass tube.

"How so?" Mercy asked. Leaning out to her left as far as possible, she tried to look around Hightower's back to see what he was doing at the sink. Meanwhile, Razorback did the same, except he leaned to his right.

The best she could tell, he was carefully rinsing out the broken whiskey bottle.

"She's the one who killed your boy over there." Hightower turned around with the mangled bottle in hand and filled to the rim with water. Pausing to take a drink, he said, "And she did it with magic, so there's probably some way they can track that, right?"

"Maybe, but I'm not sure it works that way," Mercy said while flicking her cigarette butt out into the empty space beyond the living area.

"Kiko?"

"Hmm? Oh. I would not know," Yukihime admitted. Shaking her head caused the snowflake tattoos to catch the light and sparkle. "All of my abilities are directed inwards. They only affect me."

"So, if you juice-up with mojo and then punch someone, that doesn't leave a trace?" Hightower sounded dubious as he stepped behind Yukihime and twisted his neck down and around to look her in the face.

"I, ah, do not actually know," she confessed abashedly; "I think what you are thinking of is called the 'killing hands' and that is not something I know how to do."

"Really? I thought that was, like, adept one-oh-one," Mercy asked while lighting another cigarette.

"I must have missed that class," Yukihime replied flatly. Her narrowed eyes and pursed lips conveyed displeasure at Mercy's insinuation about her lacking abilities.

"We're getting off-topic. I'll send Ozzy a message once we get everything straightened out here." Razorback spoke in a loud, authoritative voice designed for steamrolling over everyone else's conversations. "For now let's just figure out our next move."

"What next move? They're dead, you called a clean-up crew, her arm is fixed – done." Hightower raised the fingers on his free hand one by one as he rattled off points.

"I thought you were dead-set on finding out about his connection to Primo." Razorback stood up and pointed to Barbarossa while returning to plunder Mercy's refrigerator.

Hightower bobbed his head slightly before admitting, "True, that's still chewin' at me a little bit."

Mercy looked at Barbarossa, took a long drag, exhaled and pointed at him with her cigarette, saying, "Plus, there's all that bullshit with the Azzie's wantin' you dead."

"My problems with the Aztlan government have nothing to do with this situation, so I don't feel it's necessary to discuss them. As true as that is, however, the same can't be said for Primo and his associates."

"What do ya mean, associates?" Razorback asked. Holding a beer bottle aloft he motioned towards Barbarossa with it, silently asking the doctor if he wanted another to replace the empty at his side. He nodded and Razorback grabbed a second bottle and began walking in his direction.

"Primo is a member of the Carbonado Chulos. In fact, it's through them that he was referred to me and was forced to drive for such an extended period of time," Barbarossa explained as he took the bottle offered to him. "Thank you."

"How long's an extended period of time?" Mercy wondered aloud. She noticed that this time Barbarossa had thanked Razorback for the beer that he had taken from her refrigerator.

"Six months."

"Shit, no wonder he wanted you dead," Hightower exclaimed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he tries again."

"Be that as it may, it's no longer an issue. Primo is dead," Barbarossa nonchalantly informed them. His tone was flat and uninflected. A miniscule facial tick and a minor tightening at the corners of the doctor's mouth were the only visual cues of remorse Mercy detected in the doctor's revelation.

"What? How?!"

"I suppose medical confidentiality went out the window once my patient died," Barbarossa mused, pausing to take another drink. "The Chulos chapter president contacted me about implanting some expensive new headware into one of their drivers. We haggled over the price, but unfortunately never really agreed on a mutually satisfactory number. Instead, we worked out what, at the time, I thought was an excellent bargain. I would obtain and install the new hardware for the surgery, and the recipient – Primo – would work off the cost for six months. In addition, I would receive a significant discount on the materials that the gang smuggled north."

"That doesn't explain how he's dead," Mercy contended, still searching the doctor's face for kinesic insight.

Barbarossa favored her with a crooked smile before continuing. "When I installed the control rig, I also installed an RFID active neurotoxic capsule in his brain. After I determined that Primo was complicit in stealing my property and attacking my clientele, it was a simple matter of remotely activating the capsule. I imagine he died soon after."

Mercy could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she looked down at the arm Barbarossa had just operated on. Despite her complete lack of knowledge pertaining to cyber-medical mechanics, she felt the overwhelming urge to tear it apart and search for a similar device. It was an easily resisted impulse, but nevertheless; her stomach knotted, her pulse raced, and cold sweat beaded on her brow and chest.

The doctor must have noticed her discomfort and the way in which she stared at her arm, because he pivoted in his seat to face Mercy and say, "Don't worry, my dear; those kind of precautions are only necessary when dealing with certain types of people – gangs especially. You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm sure you think you're bein' reassuring, doc, but 'don't worry' is about the last thing anybody wants'ta hear right after they maybe had a bomb sewn into their fuckin' arm," Hightower said critically. He leaned against the I-beam that separated the living and dining areas and gave the doctor pointed look to emphasize his argument.

Barbarossa let out a throaty laugh, and then said, "I suppose that's probably accurate. However, in this case it's the truth." He laboriously heaved himself from the chair and shuffled towards the garbage. "The case for sabotaging Primo's headware stemmed from my personal investment, not out of malice. I had to have a way to recover my property if he reneged on our arrangement. And judging by the way things turned out, I'd say it was the right thing to do."

Razorback shrugged; "Can't argue with results, I guess."

"That's right; the total cost of my work plus materials ran to nearly ¥400,000. At least now I can recoup the cost of the implants." Barbarossa tossed the empty beer bottle in the garbage and then turned to look at Yukihime; "Well, my dear, I'd say it's about time we parted ways, wouldn't you? I feel that, all things considered, after this evening I will not be needing your services any longer. Perhaps you could walk me out and wait with me for my taxi to arrive?"

"Hai, hai." Yukihime nodded and quickly started assembling her gear.

"Now, about my fee; that battery is this year's model and is brand new, so the cost for that will be ¥650. And I used approximately ¥2200 in disposable supplies. The actual procedure only took me about forty minutes, give or take. Let's say ¥6600 for that. So, I'd call it—" Barbarossa turned from Mercy to look at Hightower as he interrupted the doctor mid-sentence.

"Holy shit?! Are you kiddin' me? That's what, ah, ¥175 a minute?"

"165." Yukihime softly corrected Hightower's math under her breath.

"You think that's too much?" Barbarossa asked. One of his eyebrows rose in a crooked arch while he smirked condescendingly. "Look-up Henry Ford and Joseph Steinmetz; I believe it'll give you some insight."

"Who the hell is Joe Steinmetz?" Razorback asked.

"Better yet, why do we give a shit?" Hightower countered.

Barbarossa shook his head in dismay; "It's an anecdote that demonstrates the value of knowledge – and its cost."

"Hey, don't forget all the bullshit you fuckin' dropped right in our laps; that's gotta be worth something, right?" Hightower bellowed while pointing to the line of corpses in the living area. "I mean, fuck, I got shot four times dealin' with your Goddamn driver narc'in' us out."

Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Barbarossa told Hightower, "I took that into consideration, and originally I thought about taking a little something off for that, yes. But since you stand to make such a nice profit off selling the remains of my assistants, I'd call it even."

"I guess I never thought about that; I was actually thinkin' we were gonna have'ta pay to get rid of 'em. Makes sense though." The aggression drained out of Hightower's voice while reviewed the new information. "How much do ya think they're going to be worth, Paul?"

Razorback shrugged while looking over at the bodies lying on the concrete floor. "Don't know; I've never done a deal like this before."

"We got their guns, their van and those comms too," Mercy added.

"Trust me; the net gain will be yours," Barbarossa assured them. "That being the case, we'll call your total ¥9500."

"I'm a little short, doc," Mercy admitted. "You think I can give you five-kay now and the rest once we get the pay-off for the stiffs?"

She had no idea that having the doctor make a house call would be so expensive when Razorback made the suggestion the night before. As her condition deteriorated, however, he took the decision out of her hands. She was unconscious when Razorback called Barbarossa, and was only partially-aware when the doctor began working on her arm. Now that the bill had come due, she wished she was more adamant about finding another alternative – one which would not have resulted in a gun battle in her home and rendered her bankrupt.

Barbarossa looked at Mercy comprehendingly and calmly said, "You have twenty-four hours. After that if I don't hear from you, I'll assume you intend to renege on your debt to me. If that's the case, I'll have to hire a debt collector and the cost for that will be added to what you owe. Understand?"

"Christ, you rattled that off pretty fast, didn't you?" Hightower sounded surprised and gave the doctor a wide-eyed, skeptical look.

"I got it, I got it. Don't worry; you'll get your money." Mercy picked-up Barbarossa's public commlink number and accessed the icon via AR. She was immediately routed to a private site within the node and deposited the overwhelming majority of her savings into the account. Immediately thereafter she got booted by the security agent program.

Obviously having received confirmation of the deposit, Barbarossa nodded approvingly. "Well then, I expect to be hearing from you soon. That being said, I have a lot of work ahead of me. Let's go."

"Jaa na, Vince. And it was a pleasure to meet you all; I look forward to seeing you again." Yukihime turned as she exited with Barbarossa, bowing and winking at Hightower in the process. She then twirled around and escorted the doctor towards the executive elevator.

 **Chapter 16**

Exiting the executive elevator, Pangolin and Silhouette walked together through the underground parking garage. The sound of her boots echoed throughout the vast, mostly-empty structure. Bereft of lights, the garage was pitch black and oppressively silent, but with a flick of her mind the Ford's engine roared to life and its headlights lit up the dark.

Parked haphazardly around the garage were the rest of the team's vehicles: Razorback's dinged brown Americar, Hightower's spotless red Cadillac, and Mercy's mud-splattered Harley Scorpion. Crouched in the midst was Pangolin's car; her lustrous, navy blue 1969 Mustang Mach 1. It looked like royalty slumming amongst peasants.

"Ya know, I've seen pics and at the garage, but I've never ridden in the Mustang before. I'm kind of excited!" Silhouette exclaimed as he walked up to the passenger door. As he reached for the handle Pangolin disarmed the security system, disengaged the mag-locks and fired the pneumatic solenoid that caused the door to gently swing open.

"Do me a favor and don't touch the paint, 'kay?" Pangolin hopped into the driver's seat and began fastening the five-point harness and neck collar. "And check your shoes before ya get in, too."

"Jawohl!" Silhouette shouted while executing a strange salute that involved making several tight circles with his hand before resting it palm-out against his forehead.

"What?"

"Nothin', I'm just being silly." He vigorously tapped the toe of each shoe against the concrete floor before sliding into the passenger seat. Pangolin retracted both doors and secured the locks while Silhouette attempted to figure out how the harness worked. "Is this thing really as fast as it looks?"

"Hell no! If it were that slow I'd use it for scrap," she exclaimed while reaching up and back to find the recessed portion in the side of the headrest. Cushioned within was a retractable spool of fiber-optic cable terminating in a 12-contact, platinum-tipped plug. Inserting the cable's plug into the datajack hidden behind her ear caused dozens of transparent AR icons to position themselves in clusters around her vision. "I restored the body to mint and rehabbed the interior, but everything else is cutting-edge. I'm not usin' hundred year old tech; are you kiddin me?"

Pangolin ran her hand lovingly along the center console. The supple, creamy white seats were authentic leather and complimented the similarly-colored interior door panels and floor mats. She replaced the antique radio with a small hard-point terminal and the climate controls with a trideo system. Instead of a center console between the bucket seats, there was now a 2D interactive touchscreen that could control all of the car's systems if need be. The dashboard was re-engineered to hold sixteen blue LED-illuminated glass and chrome gauges. And she wrapped the whole thing in luxurious blue vinyl-polymer that identically matched the exterior paint.

"You gonna take the four-oh-five?" Silhouette asked after having finally gotten the harness situated.

"Only if you don't care if I run full-dive." Pangolin scrolled through a brief diagnostic checklist.

"Nope," he said passively; "If I've got something to say, I'll text you."

"You could just hop in with me," she suggested, despite knowing he would never take her up on the offer.

"Nah, that's okay; it's a nice night and I kinda want to feel it meat-side."

"Whatever makes you happy."

Pangolin aimed the car towards the corrugated steel gate at the far end of the garage. Rolling forward slowly, she accessed the security node and submitted the pass-code and encrypted biometric data packet. A green light blinked and the gate rolled up along rails, allowing egress onto an abandoned side street. Traveling between the two office buildings for about 40 meters or so, she arrived at a defaced and derelict security check-point. At one time, there was both a mechanical arm and a set of retractable steel tire spikes that blocked access to the private street – neither remained.

Idling past the ruined check-point, Pangolin deactivated the car's GridGuide and GPS tracking signals. An agent program she loaded would now send spoofed data to both services to keep them from monitoring her. The agent's ruse would not hold up under intense scrutiny, but as long as she drove without tripping the Highway Observer Safety System they would be relatively anonymous.

Slowly, she pulled onto 92nd avenue; the sixteen cameras symmetrically located around the car's body gave her perfect 360 degree vision despite Pangolin not actually being able to see above the steering wheel. No traffic was visible as she accelerated to 50kp/hour. Augmented reality icons hung in mid-air for street lights that had long since stopped working or were altogether missing. Some of the RFID tags remained from before the businesses abandoned Clyde's Hill and they still ran fifteen year old commercials. Advertisements harassed Pangolin for coffee houses, boutique cyberware salons, Vashon Island clothiers, and 'Downtown' classed eateries – all of which referenced abandoned buildings and vandalized storefronts.

Haptic relays scattered throughout the car sent real-time data to her simsense module. She could feel the pitted, pot-holed road rattle her joints and the cool, moist air flow across her skin. Operating in augmented reality, the haptic feedback currently only operated at about twenty percent of what it would when in full virtual reality, but it was still enough for her to feel the first tingle of excitement.

"The way this thing sounded when you started it, I really expected it to shake like crazy, but I can barely feel the engine. And it's not as loud as I thought either," Silhouette observed with a childlike grin on his face.

"Adaptive suspension, smart shocks, gyroscopic stability control and back-pressure regulators," Pangolin listed just a few items on the laundry list of parts and modifications that she used to even-out the Mustang's ride.

Silhouette crookedly pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side, saying, "Nope, I know what all those words mean individually, but I dunno what that stuff actually does."

"What they do is make sure your teeth won't shake out've your head when I hit the gas."

"I like that."

"Most people do."

Bearing right, Pangolin took the ramp onto the 520 toll way. Since she deactivated the GridGuide identifier, GPS signature and automotive registration transmissions; sensors in the tollbooth scanned the car and located its Grid Provider Triangulation data. Using that information, the tollbooth pinged the car's icon to demand payment. In an effort to maintain anonymity, the agent running her spoofing programs paid the ¥15 toll from an account registered to one of the cheap, dummy SINs she got from her brother Michael. The city may have allowed Clyde's Hill to die, but they were not about to let a chance to bleed its corpse slip through their fingers.

"You owe me eight bucks" Pangolin stated, looking over at Silhouette.

"Toll?"

"Yep"

"OK" Silhouette nodded and ¥30 subsequently materialized in the account registered to the fake SIN.

"I said eight."

"Isn't there another toll to get off the 520? And there's some gas money, too."

"Didn't ask for gas money, but I'll take it. Thanks." Pangolin shut down the fake SIN before it got scanned too many times by the observer safety drones. Her brother's fake IDs were quick and cheap, but no good under scrutiny.

Leaning into the onramp, Pangolin stretched out and the Ford shot onto the expressway. Route 520 was the main east-west artery between Downtown and northwest Seattle, including the Redmond Olympic dig. As such, there was heavy construction traffic even at half-past nine. Trucks and semi-trailers aiming to meet the 405 and connect with either I5 or I90 primarily occupied the two farthest lanes. Very few of the trucks contained living drivers; most were drones operating under autopilot agents, or else satellite dispatched and controlled.

While the two right lanes were mostly heavier vehicles, the two on the left were both packed full of passenger transport. The GridGuide was the de facto driver for almost every automobile on the road – with exceptions made for drones and agents. Passengers inside the cars did everything except pilot the vehicles; they watched trideo clips, talked on their commlinks, played games, slept, applied make-up, ate, or even enjoyed the time-honored tradition of screaming at their children.

Drone, autopilot, and Grid Guide-run vehicles were all required to operate within the boundaries of the law. They need to obey the speed limit, follow at regulated safe distances, and execute proper braking procedures, et al. Pangolin easily maneuvered amongst them; she took advantage of over-generous follow distances to rapidly change lanes and used mandated engine braking time to grab more road. The empty shoulders existed solely to whip around unsuspecting minivans.

The 520 swooped up to bell curve northward before swinging south to intersect with the 405. As Pangolin weaved in and through the Grid-Guided traffic, they passed south of the Yarrow Bay wetlands preserve and the community of dryads that resided within. The dryads arrived late in 2070 and the small park awakened in response to their care. A copse of red-cedar flourished during those five years; now at 80 meters in height they completely obscured the bay from the highway.

"You ever been in there?" Silhouette asked, pointing at the park and its towering trees.

"Nah, not really my thing. Walking through the woods when you're only 125 centimeters tall is a bitch; you end up spending all your time getting hit in the face with drek and hurtin' your neck trying to see what everybody else's lookin' at." Pangolin's response sounded quite a bit more bitter that she intended, and she mentally winced at Silhouette's embarrassed expression and rising blush of guilt.

"Sorry, Gwen; I guess I never thought…"

"Don't worry 'bout it," Pangolin said, dismissively waving her hand in his general direction. "It's par for the course, being a dwarf."

"Oh. Okay." Looking at Silhouette through the dashboard camera, Pangolin could see that he was still uncomfortable. Of all the people she knew, he was the least likely to ever intentionally insult someone – especially concerning something as sensitive as their race.

Passing south of the park – and the bevy of flying drones that enforced its protected status – the highway turned and the glittering towers of Belleview came into sight.

Even from more than three kilometers away the skyline of Belleview was impressive. From her spot on the highway, Pangolin could see the scintillating silver towers of NeoNet labs and its soaring augmented reality logo. The Gates Casino stood a few meters shorter, but was no less opulent physically or in augmented reality, with its orbiting golden dice and giant multi-spectrum roulette wheel floating in the sky. In between them loomed the Gaeatronics 'Mountain' environmentally sculpted building; in front of which shone the golden Hilton hotel tower. In the same area, the Microdeck Industries complex competed with the MCT and Renraku buildings for space in the skyline. The largest of the giant buildings, however, was the massive marble and glass behemoth belonging to Ares Macrotechnology.

Surrounding the city-center rose the radiant shells of the nine domes; each dome covering one of Belleview's richest neighborhoods. A single dome consisted of square kilometers of transparent resin layered over a lattice of translucent plasteel. The electrostatically charged, photovoltaic resin repelled dirt, provided electricity and channeled rainwater into underground reservoirs. The water was demineralized and PH balanced belowground before getting pumped upward for use in the sprinkler systems that kept the rich residents of Belleview's lawns so exquisitely green.

At night the glossy surfaces of the domes sparkled, reflecting the myriad lights from the city's heart. In addition, each dome was itself a colossal video screen used to enhance the beauty of one of Seattle's already most-coveted districts. Capable of displaying millions of varyingly eye-catching landscapes, interactive displays, two-dimensional videos or even just fantastic spectacles of pure color; each neighborhood tried to outdo the others nightly. Due to wealth and prestige of Belleview's residents, the ubiquitous advertisements that wholly saturated the Seattle metroplex were absent from display on the domes, leaving the residents free to enjoy their beauty unmarred.

After finally creeping through the construction at the Belleview Way onramp, Pangolin accelerated briskly to get around and ahead of the traffic being redistributed by the GridGuide. Heading southeast and directly towards the heart of Belleview, the lights – both physical and augmented reality – were dazzling. Both types of display climbed multiple hundreds of meters in the air, each striving to be seen from the expressway. There were so many, and each so varied from the last, that as a whole they defied description.

Pangolin loaded a second agent program and set it to scan and filter icons; weeding out advertisements, spam, and unregistered commlink chatter, it kept newsfeeds and traffic reports streaming to a crawler that rolled across the bottom of her HUD.

As the 405 merge approached, Pangolin looked toward Silhouette and said, "Alright, I'm goin' in. Don't touch anything."

Silhouette's only response was a monumentally dirty look.

Giggling uncharacteristically, Pangolin dove into the Mustang. The world changed.

The hundreds of haptic relays became her skin; thousands of on-board sensors her muscles. Instead of a brain, she possessed a computer and a nervous system made of wires. Sixteen camera-eyes provided a 360° field of vision. Where once there had been a heart and lungs there were engines and compressors. She no longer had a spine; where it had been was now a drive shaft; and in-place of hips she had a transmission. Her stomach was full of high-octane unleaded and she had vulcanized, steel belted, and run-flat hands and feet.

Pangolin leaned into the onramp and launched onto the expressway. Racing around the orderly line funneling onto the 405, she accelerated out past an eighteen-wheeler and secured her spot in the left lane. Roaring through the heart of Belleview's business and shopping districts, the 405 was four lanes of impeccably manicured concrete.

The GridGuide's locked speed limits at 90kp/h within the city center to facilitate the large number of complicated ramps and merges. Pangolin kept her speed similarly-matched to avoid drawing attention from the countless traffic drones that occupied Belleview's airspace. Not only was the sky swarming with drones, but Knight Errant aerial patrols cruised above the highway and hovered below overpasses. Operating the new wingless Ares Interceptor maglev pods, officers could weave in, around, above, and through traffic with unprecedented ease.

Belleview's wealthy citizens paid a fortune to keep out the chaos and violence that inundated the rest of Seattle. Knight Errant was more than happy to oblige with as many officers as needed – so long as the money continued to flow.

It took no longer than a quarter hour to pass through the heart of Belleview. Once on the other side, and beyond the heightened vigilance of Knight Errant, Pangolin accelerated out in front of traffic. Easing up to 150kp/h meant she outpaced the surrounding vehicles, but not by so much that her agent could not spoof the system.

Silhouette → Pangolin: It doesn't even feel like we're moving fast. If I couldn't see all the cars whipping by I'd think we were going to church

Pangolin → Silhouette: I don't know how you meant it, but sounds like a compliment. So that's how I'm going to take it

Silhouette → Pangolin: That's exactly what I was trying to say

At their speed it took less than five minutes to reach the 405/90 interchange. Slowing and moving right to turn onto I-90, she watched a pack of headlights approach at high-speed. Five cars and three motorcycles bathed in neon and wrapped in chrome rocketed past. As they did, Pangolin's LAN got assaulted by spam bombs and vulgar images of barnyard animals, excrement, pornographic animation and a hastily-edited video of her car exploding in a mushroom cloud over which the word 'loser' was superimposed.

Rage caused the Ford to snarl and lurch forward, but she reeled it in. The insult stung, but the attention drawn by a street race was something she did not need, especially after what happened earlier at Mercy's place.

Silhouette → Pangolin: What was that about?!

Pangolin → Silhouette: Corp brats from the 'View pissing away daddy's money on toys they don't deserve and can't drive

Silhouette → Pangolin: Can you catch them?

Pangolin → Silhouette: Of course I can! But its 200m to our exit and now's not the time to be starting shit. I don't want to call down the pawns on the same night there's a fragging bloodbath at Mercy's

Silhouette → Pangolin: But you could still catch them, right?

Pangolin → Silhouette: I already told you I could!

Silhouette → Pangolin: Then you drive and I'll hide us from GOD and everybody else

Pangolin → Silhouette: What?!

Appearing from out of nowhere in the matrix, gossamer strands of brilliant white light spun and twirled like glittering angel hair. When they came into contact with each other they melded, creating an ephemeral, asymmetric web that enshrouded the Ford's icon. In the dilated time of virtual reality it seemed to Pangolin as if the scintillating threads danced in slow-motion, but in truth it took but a fraction of a second for them form, coalesce, and then fade from view.

Peeking through the camera in the car's cabin, Pangolin watched Silhouette as his fingers twitched; his eyelids nictitating wildly, he grinned like a fool. His personal icon was nowhere to be seen.

From the first time Hightower introduced the team to Silhouette two years ago, Pangolin had always felt that something was 'off' about him. He carried a cyberdeck, but never bothered to upgrade its hardware. There were USB-9 sockets and a datajack in his head, but he would often reach out with his hand toward a device, instead of using one of the cables dangling from his skull. And there was always a weird delay when she tried to contact his commlink directly. Once, when trying to determine the source of the delay, she discovered that her connection was mysteriously routed through an unassailable proxy that defied explanation.

Strangest of all, however, were the programs Silhouette used; programs which behaved differently from any others Pangolin used or even heard of. They acted on their own despite not being agent programs; they cooperated with each other although supposedly lacking autonomy. From time to time they would seem to be almost organic in their flexibility of function. Silhouette would play it off by saying that program icons are interchangeable and he liked variety, or that predictability lead to the authorities anticipating a program's function, but she was always suspicious.

Under a perfect storm of excitement, familiarity, and complacency Silhouette dropped his guard – he was a technomancer. There was no other plausible explanation for the existence of the bizarre program supposedly capable of obscuring the Ford from the Overwatch division.

The realization filled in any number of blanks that cropped-up since their meeting. As the second most technologically savvy member of their team, Pangolin often wondered about a great number of things, especially when it came to Silhouette's methodology. Everything he did, he did by the seat of his pants; he never prepared, eschewed using agents, always used the same persona icon, and most of all; nearly everything he did worked, regardless of how bizarre or counter-intuitive in execution it might be.

For a long time she labored under the impression that he was some form of savant whose understanding outstripped hers to the point of implausibility. Not only did coming to realize Silhouette was most likely a technomancer make Pangolin feel better about the things she did not understand about him; it made her feel better about how far her Matrix skills lagged behind. She could no more hope to outperform a technomancer online than he could hope to beat her behind the wheel or under the hood.

Pangolin → Silhouette: Remember, Dave, you asked for it!

Loading her playlist that started with the single 'Blackjack' by the punk band 'Grim Aurora'; Pangolin took a deep breath and flexed the connection between her mind and her machine. The pair of nano-forged V8's beneath the hood roared thunderously while the coupled sets of twin-turbochargers shrieked in sympathy. Hidden vent covers in the hood slid back to allow the superchargers to gulp down massive quantities of air, and the Ford bellowed in response.

The explosion of torque caused her to lose her grip for a moment. But Pangolin firmed the air pressure for added traction, lowered her profile by adjusting her struts, and smiled as she caught the road.

Music blared as they sailed past the exit.

Loading an array of intrusion countermeasures and defensive programs into an agent, Pangolin set it to defend the Ford's systems from attack. The agent, which was designed to resemble a massive Rottweiler with a gleaming, steel-spiked collar, took up residence inside the central node of the Ford's network. Having no further need of the spoofing agent, she reformatted it with a battery of attack programs and set it loose on the icon representing the street racers' temporary virtual host. The wrench-wielding mechanic agent jumped to the host's icon and began bashing at it, using brute force to club syntax errors into the firewall.

Accelerating through 220kp/h transformed the cars she passed into blurs of paint and light. The encephalon processor nestled in her brain communicated with the Ford's onboard computer to anticipate other cars' movements and navigate through them harmlessly. Horns blared and electronic insults got thrown, but Pangolin could not care less; ahead of the small knot of traffic was open road.

The rear car of the convoy that had taunted her was only 500 meters away; the Ford snarled, gulping down more gas. The speedometer showed 250kp/h briefly before resuming its climb.

The rear car, a gaudy yellow Audi, saw her coming and tried to block both the left and middle-left lanes by veering back and forth while accelerating. Due to their speed, the other driver had to be careful not to jerk the wheel too sharply during his swerving or else risk spinning out. That created a predictable opening for her to exploit when the car changed lanes. Pangolin crouched and sprinted, rushing forward. The Ford's front end dipped 12 centimeters as it lunged for the space that the Audi currently occupied, not the open lane where it would end up. Lacking the foresight to anticipate her maneuver and the reaction speed to adjust, the Audi's driver had no choice but to watch as she took up position on his right.

It was obvious when Audi's motor started topping-out. The machine shook and whined but was unable to gain any ground on the Ford. As she completed passing it, the driver could do nothing but scream at the windshield and pound his hands against the steering wheel.

An orange Shin-Hyung and a chrome-covered Mitsubishi Kunai sport bike blocked her way toward the front of the pack. The Shin-Hyung's extremely low profile would make it easy for Pangolin to take it out when the time came. The bike, however, was an issue. Racing a street-bike was dangerous, both for the person on the motorcycle and the driver opposing it. One mistake by either would most-likely cause the motorcycle to crash. And at their speed the only thing the helmet would do is allow the biker to have an open casket.

A priority alert requesting that she pull to the right and activate her GridGuide system crawled across the bottom portion of Pangolin's vision. At the same time, red lights blinked in her display, warning of incoming witness drones. The Highway Observer Safety System spotted the street race and misinterpreted it as go-gang violence.

The overwhelming majority of the vehicles on the 405 south were still running via the Grid Guide; as such, most traffic slowed and moved into the right two lanes. With the left two lanes mostly open, the race became less about positioning and more about raw power. Pangolin grinned and the Ford howled.

Newcastle beach flew by on the right as lake Washington came into view. The lights of Council Island reflected off the black water, creating strange distortions on its calm surface. Dozens of xenon navigation lights blinked above the island as security and surveillance drones circled within Salish-Shidhe airspace. A few of the eerie glowing illuminations, however, originated from a source other than man-made.

Multi-million nuyen homes with boats and private piers lined the lake. Though, no sooner did the long strip of wealthy houses appear than they vanished behind a 4.5 meter concave ferrocrete wall. At regular intervals, lithe steel towers rose and extended filigreed arms to the edge of the water. Stretched between the arms stretched taut sheets of transparent deionizing plastic, designed to filter the rain and neutralize its acidity.

Though they were invisible in the dark, Pangolin knew that there were thousands of toddler-sized drones scouring the surface of those sheets, tirelessly mending rips and cleaning dirt so that the rich would have an unobstructed view of the sky.

Meanwhile, cruising along the top of the wall; rail mounted turrets kept people from attempting to enter the domain of Seattle's elite from the expressway. She was familiar with the type: fixed wheel base, flexible support stalk, large armored central chassis holding a tiny dog brain and thousands of rounds of ammunition – not to mention, four independently-aiming, belt-fed 7.62 millimeter machine guns. They were the simplest type of drone, with the simplest type of programming: Shred anything lacking permission to enter their perimeter with a hailstorm of bullets.

Far outside the drones' range, Pangolin crept up on the rear of the Shin-Hyung. The orange sedan's narrow rear window kept her from seeing the driver, but their uninspired repetition of hard-braking and accelerating as a method of impeding her progress marked them as a rookie. Pangolin smirked in virtual reality, preparing for the next time the Shin-Hyung's driver tried the same tired ploy.

She did not have to wait long.

Milliseconds after the leading car's taillights flickered; Pangolin lit the four ancillary headlights obscured behind the chrome of the Ford's grill. Each of the small, 90 watt lamps strobed random-frequency, high-wavelength light; the brilliant intensity intended to blind and nauseate anyone unfortunate enough to look in their direction. Actuators aimed the outermost pair of lights at the side mirrors, one of the center strobes inclined to target the rearview mirror, and the fourth maintained a forward position to blind the rear-facing cameras in the Shin-Hyung's bumper.

The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. Braking hard enough to lock-up its tires, the Shin-Hyung screeched and smoked. Pangolin straddled the broken white line that demarked the border between the left and center-left lanes, allowing the car to pull back and to the left. Swerving wildly in reaction to the strobes' intense light, the orange sedan scraped up against the concrete divider and came to a steaming stop in Pangolin's mirror.

As she shut down the strobe lights and pulled past the silver Kunai, red warning lights blinked in her notification tray. Enlarging the window showed a half-dozen radar blips moving at high-speed with a range of 650 meters and closing. At the same time, Pangolin's agent program informed her of an attack against the Ford's network firewall and requested permission to load and deploy intrusion countermeasure programs.

She loaded a search program and sent it after the incoming drones. Simultaneously, Pangolin authorized the terminal's agent to load and deploy intrusion countermeasures. Meanwhile, her attack agent, having breached the racers' temporary virtual host, was busy launching offensive malware into their individual networks.

Pangolin → Silhouette: Things are starting to get interesting. You still good on doing whatever it is you're doing?

Silhouette → Pangolin: Yep. As long as you don't do anything against the system, the GODlings shouldn't notice us. I'm not going to make any promises for those guys though.

Don't worry about them; we're going to be done her real soon and get gone Pangolin sent her text just as she roared past the Kunai sport bike, who slowed to check on the status of the crashed Shin-Hyung's driver.

The remaining vehicles clustered together, showing a unified front. Three hyper-modified Asian import sedans blocked the left lanes, while two more sport bikes weaved in amongst the slower traffic on the right, preventing Pangolin from doing the same. All the while, the drones were steadily gaining ground despite her current speed of over 270kp/ hour.

Mentally activating the solenoid valves attached to the two aluminum tanks hidden in the trunk, Pangolin prepared to finish-up and get away before drawing any more attention. The first tank released a steady stream of high-octane racing fuel directly into the main line. There was no immediate overt effect, but the diagnostic readouts that constantly scrolled-by showed the desired results.

Hang on Dave!

What?

The second tank opened wide and the complex multi-port injection system released a healthy dose of nano-sculpted, nitrous-oxide microbeads. Less than one-one hundredth of a second later, the plenum bar rig sprayed a second, supplemental dose directly into the intake manifold. The Ford bellowed and charged. Pangolin hurtled herself forward and the Mustang devoured the 50 meters between her and the pack. Pouncing on the open shoulder to the left, she gulped down high-octane fuel and sprinted headlong onto the open road at 375km/hour.

 **Chapter 17**

"You find the place OK?", "Yeah, there's another elevator on the north side, but the one in the building's alot bigger.", "You got a hat or somethin'? That hallway's lit with UV lamps to keep the devils out.", "Yeah.", "No.", "No.", "How many?", "No shit? Movin' up in the world, eh?", "Must be nice.", "There's no button down there; I gotta hit it from my end. Hang on. There ya go.", "Okay."

Mercy watched Razorback flip the switch sending the elevator down to the first floor. He then waited a moment and called it back. He had grown increasingly anxious during the intervening hour between calling his friend in Tamanous and his arrival. Now that he was finally here, Razorback seemed worse instead of better.

"Will you calm the fuck down?" Hightower bellowed from his seat on the couch; "You're like an old woman, pacing around like that. You're makin' _me_ nervous just watching yer dumb ass!"

"Cut me some slack, wouldya?" Razorback barked in response. "We've been sittin' on a pile a corpses for an hour and a half now; I just wanna get this done and over with."

"He's right, Paul; you're gonna give yourself an ulcer if you don't calm down. We got this under control." Mercy tried to project a cavalier attitude towards the situation, despite her own private misgivings. Razorback was wont to drive himself crazy over the tiniest of details, and their current situation was far from a tiny detail.

"You said that guy was your friend, right?" Hightower asked.

"Yeah, so?" Razorback responded acerbically.

Hightower twisted on the couch to look in Razorback's direction. Leaning over the back he said, "Well fuckin' relax, man; let the pasty lookin' mutherfucker do his job."

"It's not his fault, I'm afraid. He's been a worrier since we were children; it's in his nature. I keep telling you, Paul; if you don't learn to relax and enjoy life, you're going to put yourself in an early grave," a smooth, faintly sibilant voice said from far out in the shadows.

"Shit! I didn't even hear the elevator get here," Razorback exclaimed, turning and peering into the darkness. "Come on over."

Mercy gazed in the direction of the voice coming from the elevator. Sitting in the recliner under the lights meant that it was unwise to activate the low-light filter in her eye; instead, she switched to ultrasound. It was around 40 meters from where she sat to the freight elevator, but she was still able to get an adequate image of the person walking towards the living area.

The three micro-cameras in her right eye locked in a fixed and open position, allowing the eleven electromagnetic masers to warm-up. The nanomechanical ferrophasic-sapphire emitters hummed ever-so-slightly as they devoured the biochemical energy necessary to operate. Tiny polymorphic liquid-crystal tori focused, molded, and sculpted the eleven invisible beams from pinpoint targeting to wide area scanners to penetrating analyzers. They played across every square micrometer of the newcomer and created a textured image that was so precise that the three-dimensional rendering even mapped the tiny capillaries pulsing-away beneath his skin.

As he approached, the amalgamation software in her implanted commlink combined the video from her left and right eyes. The resultant image was perfect, and so far beyond what even top of the line aftermarket cybereyes were capable of, that simply calling it vision seemed insufficient.

Hightower → Mercy: You keep running that thing so soon after being laid-up, you're going to be right back in bed, dumbass

Mercy turned to look at the troll, who was in turn watching at her with a knowing grin on his face.

Mercy → Hightower: How did you know it was even on? The beams are invisible

Hightower → Mercy: The beams might be invisible, but the look on your face when you're running it is so fucking obvious you might as well be waving a sign

Mercy shut down the Bullseye system and immediately felt its aftereffects. Even running at low yield as it was, the optic masers consumed a huge amount of energy. Sagging in the recliner, a new sheen of sweat formed on her skin; she felt drained and the first pangs of hunger twisting in her gut.

Hightower shook his head slowly side to side, making snide _tsk, tsk, tsk_ noises; "Sometimes I wonder what I did in a past life to get stuck with so many fuckin' retards in this one."

Mercy shrugged; "Maybe you're just putting shit in the bank for the next life. You ever think of that?"

"I like that, yeah," Hightower said, pushing himself up off the couch. "With the amount of bullshit I have'ta deal with you assholes, maybe I'll come back as a dragon."

Mercy paused for a moment, then asked, "Wait, aren't you Catholic?"

"Maybe? What's it to you?"

"So, you're wearing a cross and moaning about being reincarnated?" She pointed at the gold crucifix dangling from his neck, and said, "Don't add-up there, big guy."

Hightower pressed his palms together, his hands held vertically against his chest as though he was devoutly praying. "I like to believe God and Buddha have an arrangement."

"Besides, you killed, like, three people less than two hours ago; you think you're coming back as a dragon? You'll be lucky to come back as a tapeworm." Mercy leaned back in the recliner while laughing derisively. The IV bag, which she affixed to the steel girder with a half-dozen refrigerator magnets, sloshed and nearly came loose.

"It was self-defense; God understands self-defense," Hightower argued while walking around the couch to stand next to Razorback. The two of them now stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder at the head of the line of corpses laid out on the concrete floor.

"What about Buddha?" Mercy asked.

Hightower looked back over his shoulder so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye and said, "Fuck Buddha; he does what Jesus tells him to."

Razorback exhaled sharply; "Will you two shut-up, please!?"

"Don't stop them, Paul; I enjoy a good existential debate." As the ghoul entered the illuminated area, he let out a soft, genteel chuckle. "Though, I can honestly say that's the first time I've ever heard that _particular_ theological viewpoint…plus, I believe its Hindus who believe in reincarnation, not Buddhists."

"Yeah, well, stick around; he's full of interesting viewpoints. Trust me." Razorback walked over to meet him and shook the ghoul's hand without hesitation.

"Percy," Razorback pointed to the ghoul, then back and forth between him, Hightower, and Mercy, "Hightower 'nd Mercy and vis a versa"

He was just marginally taller than the average human at 185 centimeters, though his exceptionally thin physique made Percy appear much lankier. Like all ghouls he was bald, with pointed ears and ash-grey skin covered with nodules and lumps of keratinized flesh. That, however, was where the comparison with every other ghoul Mercy had ever seen ended.

Instead of long scraggly claws, he had short, manicured nails. While he still possessed the sharp, crocodilian-type teeth of most ghouls, Percy's were uniformly sparkling white and not the rotten yellow she expected. Sporting designer sunglasses, high-gloss dress shoes, a crisp, tailored black suit with a charcoal dress shirt and blood-red pocket square and necktie; he looked every bit the sophisticated gentleman.

"A pleasure, I'm sure." Percy made a slight nod in Mercy's direction. He took a step in Hightower's direction with his hand extended, but stopped as the troll crowded into his personal space.

Mercy looked at Razorback, whose expression of alarm and concern mimicked her own. Hightower had an odd mien that she had never seen before; a strange combination of confusion and surprise dominated his face. Though he had said earlier that he had no concerns about dealing with a ghoul, it would be perfectly in character for him to change his opinion on a whim.

"What's the problem, Vince? You said you were fine with this," Razorback asked as he moved to intercede between Hightower and Percy.

"Ya wanna know my problem? Just lookit this guy's suit!" Hightower had turned so his back was to Mercy, but his tone of voice did not sound hostile. Sometimes it was hard to tell, though, since he tended to mostly speak in a dull roar.

"His suit?" Razorback asked, obviously confused. "What the hell're you talkin' about; what's wrong with his suit?"

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong with it; it's fucking gorgeous!" Hightower leaned in close, examining Percy's suit with an abnormal intensity, "I'd give my left nut to be walkin' around in something like this."

Razorback rolled his eyes and exhaled an exasperated sigh. A look of obvious relief washed over his face as he ran his hand along the top of his shaved head. Mercy could not help but to feel the same.

"Thank you very much." Percy accepted the compliment with grace, all the while grinning toothily.

"Hand stitched, real silk?" Hightower asked, apparently transfixed by the ghoul's garment.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I could give you my tailor's number, if you'd like."

Hightower leaned back and burst into rancorous laughter, shaking his head. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?! It'd take me three lifetimes working with these chumps to make enough for one of those babies in my size."

"I see," Percy looked up at Hightower with a sly grin, "Perhaps, we could work something out. One of the nicer things about knowing Paul for so very long is that I'm well aware of his paranoia concerning security. Anyone he works with on a regular basis is sure to pass my standards of employment."

"Hey! Knock that shit off!" Razorback shouted indignantly. "Don't go poachin' my people, ya prick!"

Percy laughed softly; "You know better than most, Paul: Business is business."

"Yeah? I'll call yer Ma, and we'll let _her_ talk to you about _your_ business."

Mercy sucked air in through her teeth; under her breath she mumbled, "Low-blow."

Percy winced. "I'd rather you'd threatened me at gunpoint, it'd be kinder. Oh well, I suppose I should take a look at the merchandise. I'd be best to get started as soon as possible, before any more degradation takes place."

Razorback: "Probably"

Hightower: "Go for it."

Mercy: "All yours."

"I'm going to call my assistant over; please don't be alarmed," Percy said, turning in the direction of the elevator. "Margaret, would you come here, please?"

The sharp click of high heels on concrete preceded a Caucasian elf in a tailored blue pantsuit. Unlike a typical business suit, however, it was open at the front to display the tight, low-cut, white lace, peek-a-boo camisole she wore underneath. She was short, though the heels she wore mitigated that somewhat. Her wavy, chestnut hair was shoulder-length and curled playfully around her gracefully elongated ears – each of which had a multitude of various piercings. Her face had the typical elven beauty: high cheekbones, thin nose, slightly angled eyes, tiny mouth with puckered lips and a cool, detached demeanor.

Hightower → Mercy: I can't believe I have to say this to a fucking woman, but stop starting her tits! You're like a horny teenager!

Mercy jumped a little when Hightower' text scrolled across her vision in bright red letters.

Mercy → Hightower: Can't help it; there's just something about elves. You think they're real?

Hightower → Mercy: Christ alive! What difference does it make? You smell like sweat and puke and have an IV hanging from your arm. Even if she's into chicks you haven't got a shot

Mercy → Hightower: Nothing wrong with a little challenge. Think you can keep her here long enough for me to shower and shave my legs?

Hightower → Mercy: What? You mean like against her will?

Mercy → Hightower: Jesus, no! Just talk me up a while. See if she'll stick around for a little bit after this is all done

Hightower → Mercy: You forget Desi's sleeping in your bed?

Mercy → Hightower: Nope!

Hightower → Mercy: I'm out! You want to get laid; do it yourself. Fucking degenerate

Mercy → Hightower: You're a shitty wingman, you know that?

Hightower → Mercy: Whatever

Mercy → Hightower: Prude!

Razorback → Hightower, Mercy: Will you two at least try and look like you give a damn about what's going on?!

Both Hightower and Mercy snapped to attention after getting embroiled in their silent, speed-of-thought banter. Razorback favored them both with a dirty look and went back to watching the ghoul work.

Hightower → Mercy: Slut!

Meanwhile, Percy crouched over the body of Gabriel del'Piaz. He held the rigor mortis-stiffened corpse's head nonchalantly in his left hand; with his right he indicated the other bodies using a wide, sweeping gesture. "It's been too long to be able to harvest any organs, so all eleven will be processed as meat," he said, dropping del'Piaz's head onto the concrete as he stood upright. "Let's say ¥ 3.60 a kilo except for this one, here," Percy pointed to the mage with the smashed skull, "He'll be ¥14.25 a kilo and make sure to stress to them that he's to be kept whole, please. He'll lose much of his value if he's processed like the others."

"Of course," Percy's aide acknowledged while tapping away at an imperceptible augmented reality notepad.

Walking over to Barbarossa's dead assistant, Percy tapped her temple with his shoe; "Take especial care with this one, too. Someone's put a cranial bomb in the poor thing's head."

"I understand."

"Hang on, hang on. How the hell could you tell something like that?" Hightower asked, walking over to stand opposite Percy while overlooking the dead woman in question.

"Simple, really; your average ghoul has a sense of smell believed to be about one thousand times more acute than even the most sensitive canine's. And I assure you, mine is far from average," Percy grinned wryly, "The nose knows; if you'll forgive the awful pun."

"He might, but I ain't gonna," Razorback muttered under his breath.

"We also have excellent hearing, Paul; you humorless killjoy, you," Percy chided Razorback playfully without turning to look in his direction. "Anyway, all the others may be processed normally, Margaret."

"Very well," the elf said. "May I send them over to begin?"

"I think that'd be best, yes. Thank you."

Mercy watched the elf as she slowly promenaded away into the dark. Her pants were snug and well-fitted around the buttocks and thighs, perfect to show off the supple curves underneath. She had flawless, statuesque posture. And the way she swung her hips in time with the striking of her heel kept Mercy watching long after she disappeared into the darkness.

When she finally looked away, Mercy noticed Razorback watching her impassively, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

"Whoa, whoa WHOA! You're not going to start chopping up those poor bastards right here, are you?!" Hightower shouted in revulsion.

"Of course not. It would be quite the mess, not to mention the wastefulness of it all," Percy corrected him. "However, that does bring to mind a related question."

"Yeah?"

Percy turned to look more or less in Mercy's direction; "This is your home, correct?"

"Yep, be it ever so humble and blood-stained. Why?" She leaned forward in the recliner to better look Percy in the face while talking.

Removing a handkerchief from a pocket inside his coat and wiping his hands, Percy enquired, "I was wondering what your plans were, concerning whether or not you'll be staying here after this incident?"

Mercy shrugged her shoulders and skewed her hands; "We were talking about it a little bit earlier, but I haven't made up my mind yet." She tried to hide her confusion and curiosity about his line of questioning.

"Perhaps I could incentivize you in making your decision," Percy said with a subtle grin.

"What're you drinvin' at?" Razorback asked with a puzzled look on his face.

"What?" Mercy looked from Percy to Razorback then back again. Razorback shrugged; his slight frown was exacerbated by the tusks at the corners of his mouth.

"I currently oversee several shops in Redmond; competition is fierce, not only for suitable storage sites, but clients and materials. To make matters worse, the demolitions in preparation for the Olympic stadium have gone on 'round-the-clock. Already I've seen a marked drop in business due to the presence of so many Knight drones monitoring the construction sites. It strikes me, however, that your home here, is, in fact, ideally suited to alleviate many of those issues. In addition, the proximity to Belleview gives this location an undeniable allure," Percy said while pointing in Belleview's general direction. "I'd be willing to pay you to vacate the premises."

"You'll pay her to leave? I didn't realize Tamanous was so generous," Hightower said skeptically.

Percy smiled towards Hightower; "It's true; normally to remove one squatter from a prime location I would simply send in a feral pack to clear the place out, but this case is different for many reasons. Firstly, of course, is your relationship to Paul – one of the few friendships I retain from my youth and one I hope to maintain. Secondly, and, I'm sorry, Paul, but this is the more pragmatic reason: Your continued goodwill as a successful runner team means many more opportunities for mutually beneficial business transactions in the future."

Mercy → Razorback: Is he on the level?

Razorback → Mercy: Definitely. Percy's as cut-throat as they come and he's a son-of-a-bitch for fine print, but when he makes a deal he's good for it. He got where he is by being tough, but he's still around because people know they can deal with him and he won't stab them in the back

Razorback looked in her direction gave a slight nod.

"How much're we talkin', here?" Hightower asked, eyeing Percy critically over crossed arms.

Percy coughed politely; "I wasn't aware this was a group negotiation. Perhaps I should consult my attorney?"

"He's right; shut-up, Vince." Mercy stood up from the recliner, grabbed the IV bag, and walked towards Percy. "So, how much we talkin', here?"

"Ten thousand to vacate in 48 hours seems fair, yes?"

"Twenty!"

"My, my; perhaps I could go as high as twelve."

"Eighteen!"

"Twelve thousand five hundred will have to be my top offer, I'm afraid."

"Fifteen?"

"Twelve thousand five hundred plus five percent discount on aftermarket merchandise."

"Done!" Mercy agreed. While reaching out to shake the ghoul's hand she tried her absolute best not to recoil when touching his leathery skin. Percy's overlong fingers gripped her smaller hand with the perfect amount of pressure and for the briefest of duration. Knowing full-well how uncomfortable touching a ghoul would make most people, it was something he obviously practiced.

During the course of their brief negotiations, Percy's assistant returned with half a dozen men in tow. Four of them wore disposable grey 'flats', rubber work boots, long PVC gloves, and surgical masks. The other two were in reinforced synth-leather motorcycle racing suits complete with helmets emblazoned with red claw mark emblems superimposed over the numbers 162. The only visible parts of their bodies were their hands and feet – which were grey, scabrous, and armed with long black talons.

The four humans paired-off to grab a single corpse by the hands and feet while the ghouls each individually hefted one body.

The elf, meanwhile, stormed right up to Percy and began to harangue him in a stern, lecturing tone. "I'm sorry, but you can't decide unilaterally to open a new location without consent! There are protocols in place to protect the organization!"

"I'm well aware of the rules, my dear. And I am also well aware of the amount of latitude my position affords me in making decisions that will benefit both the organization and myself." Physically, Percy and she were of a similar height, but somehow he seemed to loom over her.

"That doesn't matter; I have my own position to worry about, too, you know," the elf chastised him while slowly backing away. "I'm going to have to tell Franzen, for my own protection if nothing else. He can decide if this's acceptable or not."

Percy lashed out, grabbing the elf around the throat and pulling her in close. "I have never before, and do not now, require approval to conduct business as I see fit!" he growled. For the briefest of moments, Mercy saw the suave veneer of the cultured businessman melt away beneath a predator's fanged menace. Both the humans and the ghouls removing the corpses stopped and stood stock-still, transfixed by fear.

Mercy felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end as ancient predator-prey instincts awoke. Something from deep inside urged her to run. She had been close to death on any number of occasions, but never predation; never caged face to face with a beast.

Percy's voice seeped menace as he whispered, "I'm well aware of your constant reports to Franzen, as well as your juvenile attempts to undermine me. I'd hoped that when enough of them had failed you'd come to your senses, but I see that was wishful thinking."

Margaret kicked wildly and smacked at the hand gripping her throat. The hissing and choking noises she made became more and more frantic and her eyes started rolling back in her head.

"Insubordination is a cancer that devours from within. As I take pride in my work and would never allow such a disease to corrupt my merchandise, neither will I let it corrupt my organization. I'm sorry my dear, but my patience with you has very much run out." The look in the elf's eye went from fear to full-blown terror. She flailed madly like a hooked fish but never budged Percy's grip so much as a millimeter.

"Hey, man, just c—"

"Let it alone, Vince; it's none of our business," Razorback interrupted Hightower.

"Yeah, but—"

"I'm tellin' you; just let it go, Vince," Razorback said in a significantly more stern tone. "It's in-house."

"Fukkit," Hightower held his hands up at shoulder height in a gesture of mock surrender. "Fine."

Percy looked away from the struggling elf in his hand and towards the pair of ghouls. He issued several low, sibilate hisses punctuated by whispered growls and guttural throat clicks. The two helmeted ghouls responded by dropping the bodies they held and snatching the struggling elf from Percy's grip. With her throat released, Margaret alternated between gulping down ragged breaths and shrieking in terror as the ghouls dragged her towards the elevator.

Mercy cringed as the elf wept and begged for help, her screams ferine shrieks of terror.

"I apologize for you having to see that. It's embarrassing to think that I'd let a subordinate get so out of hand that they'd think to challenge me in front of a client…and a friend, to boot." Percy leaned his head back and exhaled slowly. Then, after a moment taken to calm himself, he turned to Razorback and said, "At any rate, I'll have the final weight tallies ready for you later this evening, Paul. After we process the bodies, I'll put the cyberware up in the market and you'll get your standard percentage."

"As for you, darling; I believe this covers what was discussed earlier." Percy smiled at Mercy as her public account beeped, indicating a deposit of twelve thousand five hundred nuyen. More than the men dragging bodies, or the elf screaming in the distance, that smile that made her sweat.

 **Chapter 18**

"You don't have to do this! _Please!_ I did everything you asked me to," Barbarossa wailed. "I told him that the ork was going to have people there with him. I warned him!"

Lysaker adjusted his glasses higher on his nose and said, "I'm sure you did; after all, it was in your best interest. And yet here we are." Brushing a few specks of dirt off his pant leg, he sat in straight-backed chair and watched Barbarossa writhe in the rocks and mud. "My request was exceptionally simple, I believe. When mister del'Piaz got in contact with you to call in your marker, as it were; you were to lie to him. You were specifically instructed to ensure that mister del'Piaz did _not_ engage in his asinine attempt at revenge."

"You don't understand; I couldn't say no, he was threatening to send me back. He said he knew people in the government who were still looking for me! I had to do what he said, but I tried to talk him out of it!" Tears streamed down the old man's face as he wriggled toward Lysaker, cutting and gouging his skin as he moved. The abrasive volcanic rock of Carbonado scoured any flesh it came in contact with. "I tried and talk him out of it! I swear! When he wouldn't listen I begged him to bring more men; I didn't know the troll would be there!" Barbarossa struggled with the wire ties that bound his wrists and ankles. Looking up from the ground he shouted, "I _told_ him at _least_ three runners!"

"He ain't lyin'," Primo said while using a razorblade to even out another line on the mirror laid across his knees. "I heard him, but that hardheaded sunovabitch just wouldn't listen, know what I'm sayin'?"

Lysaker turned in his chair to look at Primo and asked, "If that's the case, why did things go so poorly, I wonder?"

"It's because he couldn't wait! He sent those men in while I was still there with the girl." Barbarossa, through supreme effort, hoisted himself to his knees and penguin-walked toward Lysaker. "If she hadn't been there the whole thing would've turned out different! She's friends with the troll, Hightower. I heard them talking; he said they worked together before!"

Primo snorted down a gravelly line of nova coke then exhaled sharply and shook his head. After a few seconds spent pinching his nostrils together he said, "Shit might be different if that one bitch ain't show up."

"I assume you're talking about the woman who goes by the name Calypso?" Lysaker asked, using his foot to keep the groveling doctor at a distance.

"I guess," Primo said. "That red-nigger bitch with the chichis?"

"Her, too! If she hadn't been there none of this would've happened!" Barbarossa squealed manically. "You can't send me back, please! _Please!_ Muniz will have me on Heuy Teocalli the second I'm off the plane!"

"That well may be the case, but I fail to see why I should care." Lysaker got up and walked away from the groveling doctor. "You failed. Quite spectacularly, as a matter of fact. You couldn't keep mister del'Piaz from instigating a confrontation when he called on you to use your connections to find the ork, and you allowed him to die when a confrontation became inevitable."

"I sent him messages and pictures; I brought extra men and he," Barbarossa yanked his gaze off Lysaker to glare at Primo, "he killed them!"

"Yes, I have to admit to a rather intense curiosity when it comes to that point," Lysaker said. "Why exactly did you feel the need to kill those two men?"

"Clear the way, man. Gabe comes rollin' up in them vans he jacked and those two O'Malley's was ready to let fly," Primo explained as though he talked to a child. "I ain't geek 'em and they'da done Gabe's whole crew right on the spot."

"An-and then the girl Ca-Calypso calls the ork and that's when the troll went running downstairs!" Barbarossa shrieked.

Primo nodded; "I barely slot them two O'Malley putas before she come runnin'. There ain't no way he'd know she'd show up."

"Exactly! I couldn't have known that would happen I—"

"But it _did_ happen, and now someone has to be responsible for it," Lysaker said, interrupting Barbarossa. "And as selfish as it may be, I'd prefer not to be that person."

"I can help you! I told them you were dead, Jaime; that had to count for something, right?!" the doctor pleaded from down on his knees. "I can help you fix this!"

"Fix it? Doctor, you don't even understand what the problem really—"

"I have contacts all through Seattle; I can find them, I can make this right! _Please!?"_

"Gallegos wants shit handled rápido; you ain't got time to start throwin' hook-ups to the wolves, homes," Primo said, fixing Lysaker with a jittery-eyed gaze. "El Jefe don't like it when the big dogs from Aztlan start breathin' down his neck."

Lysaker brushed some more of the free-flowing volcanic dust off his suit jacket. Looking at no one in particular, he said, "I suppose that _is_ a valid point."

"I can help you! Let me help you!" Barbarossa squealed, falling face first back into the grit.

"Very well, doctor Campos," Lysaker looked at the ten Chulos scattered around the abandoned schoolhouse and said, "I believe I have a few calls I need to make…"

 **Chapter 19**

Percy stared at the unctuous little man sitting across the desk from him. Ten years ago he would have had Lysaker's throat out before he was even seated, but he was a different person now. He had responsibilities. He had a lifestyle that relied upon him not catering to his baser instincts. The man was there to talk business, and Percy was, after all, a businessman.

Still, there was something about him, something that dredged up instincts that Percy had long struggled to keep under lock and key.

"It's like I said, Mister Carlisle; I would like to purchase the head of Gabriel del'Piaz," Lysaker said after readjusting his glasses.

Probing Lysaker's aura was pointless; there was no fear, no uncertainty, and no confusion – only an inordinate amount of confidence. Perhaps it was the man standing behind him that granted Lysaker that unnatural assurance that he would leave the room alive. More likely it was the man whose name he tread-upon that gave him such bald courage.

"I understand what you're asking for, Mister Lysaker," Percy said. "What I don't understand is how you know that his head is here."

"I don't see where that would be any of your concern," Lysaker stared at him with a fearless nonchalance and a barely visible smirk, "I have money and you have merchandise. You plainly have what I am looking for; you haven't denied it. What difference does it make why and how I know mister del'Piaz' head is here? Name your price and I will pay it and be on my way."

Percy smelled Lysaker's flesh. He could taste the aroma on his tongue when air passed his lips. His heart beat faster within his chest, his muscles quivered, and his mouth filled with saliva.

Leaning over the desk, he steepled his fingers under his chin, and said, "Frankly, Mister Lysaker, it's because you asked for the merchandise by name."

"I fail to see the signif—"

"It is significant to me because I feel that you are involving me in something personal. That feeling becomes more acute when you come to me under the auspices of Señor Machado – a powerful man with powerful enemies. It further worries me when you arrive with one of the Cuacuahtin standing over your shoulder," Percy said. "I feel that, perhaps, there is an unspoken threat in your request, Mister Lysaker, and I don't like it."

Percy heard Lysaker's heartbeat, heard the slight murmur in an aortic valve. The gentle _thump_ and _swoosh_ of the man's blood twisted his stomach into a knot of hunger. He could get to Lysaker before the Aztlaner standing behind him intervened.

Lysaker looked at Percy with pure, unadulterated condescension. "I assure you mister Carlisle, there could be nothing farther from the truth. Mister del'Piaz' head – more-specifically, the commlink contained within – has sensitive information in it. That information has no bearing on you or your organization, which is why Mister Franzen assured me there would be no complications with acquiring it."

The talons on Percy's hands, which he normally kept trimmed and neat, grew quickly. Centimeter by centimeter, he could feel them transforming from manicured nails back to lethal claws. As they were now, he could disembowel Lysaker with just a simple flick of the wrist. In another minute they would be long enough to get the soldier, too.

"I see," Percy pushed away from the desk and allowed his chair to roll backward, "Well then, it would seem as though my concerns were completely unfounded. I will have one of my assistants bring you what you ask for immediately. Please take it gratis, as my way of an apology to both you and Señor Machado."

"That's very kind of you," Lysaker said haughtily.

"It is, isn't it?"

 **Chapter 19.5**

Percy stormed down the hallway. People scattered before him like chaff, averting their eyes and flattening themselves against the walls if they could not outright flee.

He ripped his tie off in shreds and hurled his suit coat to the floor.

Despondent surgeons relegated to outright butchery, blood-crazed Disassemblers, crooked Knight Errant officers and cold-hearted black market dealers shrank away from him as prowled the corridors of the repurposed hospital. Their auras were rife with fear and self-preservation; that's how it should be be – how it was _meant_ to be. Even people who had nothing to fear should be afraid.

Not like Lysaker who just sat there, smugly unafraid. Lysaker who used others' strengths like a cudgel. Lysaker whose veiled threats forced him to betray a friend. Lysaker who spoke to him like he was still one of the ferals scavenging in the street.

Percy lashed out wildly in frustration. A quartet of 8 centimeter-deep gouges marked his passing in the concrete wall.

The twisting maw of hunger in his stomach squealed and gurgled as he approached the second of six locked storage rooms. Claws harder than steel ripped the keypad off the casing; two more slashes destroyed the hinges. As the heavy door fell to the ground with an ear-popping _thud,_ the occupants of the room scurried away towards the back.

Screams, wails, prayers; the room was full of all the sounds of misery and hopelessness. One voice in particular drove his hunger.

"Hello, Margaret…"

 **Chapter 20**

"Did I tell you how bad I screwed up with Gwen the other night?" Silhouette asked, nervously draining the can of 'Blue Beast' energy soda sitting on the table. It was his fourth can of the day and it was barely past noon. He had slept rarely in the days since he and Pangolin shared a ride home from Mercy's now-empty apartment. The lack of sleep was starting to take its toll.

"If you stop right now it'll only be about three hundred times, so yeah; you fukkin' told me," Hightower replied snidely over the sound of the commentators talking on the trideo display, "Just relax, okay?"

"How am I supposed to relax? Do you even _know_ what they do if they can get their hands on one of us?! It's like Bond villain kinda stuff," Silhouette wailed plaintively. He let the empty can fall from his hand and plunked his head face-down on the table. Low, pathetic moans emanated the small fort he made by wrapping his arms around his head.

"And you think Gwen's gonna rat you out?" Hightower asked. He muted the trideo terminal's audio feed and redirected it to one of the wireless earbud speakers he had on the end table. Wiggling the tiny speaker into his left ear allowed him to hear the Desert Wars' commentators out of one ear and Silhouette out of the other.

Silhouette lifted his head and leaned back in his chair, arms dangling at his sides. The elevated, human-sized chair made him feel like he sat in a child's booster seat at the troll's giant table. "I dunno…maybe not…maybe not intentionally, but she's got that big family, you know? Maybe if one them was in trouble or something, or somebody threatened her. You know, lotsa 'corps'll pay-out big for te...someone like me."

"So you think someone's going to kidnap one of the seven dwarves in order to force Gwen to reveal the identity of all the technomancers she knows? What're you, retarded?" Hightower asked sarcastically as got up and walked to the refrigerator.

"Shhh!" Silhouette hissed emphatically, "Somebody might hear you!"

"What, you think _my_ place's bugged?" Hightower asked with his head buried in the refrigerator. It caused his voice to echo strangely while he scavenged for food that Silhouette could plainly see was not there. "You're losin' it, man."

"No, I don't think your place is bugged. But what if someone outside heard you? Your voice carries, you know."

"Okay, fine. Whatever," Hightower conceded. Sniffing suspiciously, he emerged from the depths of the refrigerator with a jug of soy milk and a net bag of questionable grapefruits. "First off; you don't even know if Gwen knows you're a….special magic computer warlock, do you?"

"Ha ha. No, I don't know for sure, but it's not like she's stupid, you know. She's more matrix savvy than all of you guys put together. I mean, riggers are just hackers that go another way; you hand any one of 'em worth anything a deck and they're good to go. And Gwen's sharp." Silhouette leaned his head back so that it rested against the chair's faux-wood plastic frame. Staring at the four meter high ceiling, he started subconsciously counting dots on the tiles.

"If you're so worried about this shit, I don't get why you'd let 'er see you do something like…whatever the hell it was you said you did," Hightower said while tossing rotten grapefruits, one after another, into the recycling mulcher in the sink. "Drek…these're all rotten."

"Dammit, I dunno!" Silhouette wailed, intentionally banging the back of his head against the chair's frame. "I was havin' fun and I think she was showin' off a little in her car and I just… I just wasn't thinking!"

"Okay, so what; worst case scenario, Gwen knows. I mean, hell, she can't be the first person ever to catch on, right? Shit, I caught ya and it took me a fucking week to program my trid terminal," Hightower tossed the empty bag into the compactor next to the refrigerator, "If I can catch ya, fucking anybody can."

"Of course other people've found out, but not a lot. I can probably count on both hands the number of people who _know_ know, ya know? And every time I was positive someone'd found out, believe me I made sure they would never tell anybody _. Ever!_ " Silhouette put special emphasis on 'ever' hoping it would make him sound authoritative and maybe even a little intimidating, but after hearing it leave his lips he was afraid it only made him sound desperate.

"What, you killed 'em?" Hightower sneered at him with an arched eyebrow. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Silhouette rolled his eyes at the troll's overt mocking cynicism. "Don't be stupid; you know I've never killed anybody. But I made sure they knew what would happen if they told anyone."

Hightower moseyed over to the opposite side of the table and sat down in one of the large, troll-sized chairs. After taking a long pull from the jug, he said, "Just for the fun of it, tell me what you'd do to somebody who found out and decided they wanted to cash-in."

"Maybe we should talk about something else. This's giving me a sour stomach." Silhouette felt the slow sting of heartburn creeping up his chest and an unpleasant churning in his stomach. The anxiety of the dilemma was also giving him a fair amount of gastric distress.

"It ain't this conversation that's doing that; it's that shit you're drinking. You ever read the label on one of those things? It's like a Goddamned chemistry experiment," Hightower said, pointing to the empty can lying on its side. "But seriously, just for fun tell me what the great Silhouette would do to someone for blabbing his secret to the world."

"There's alotta stuff you can use to threaten people with even if you're not a violent person, you know," Silhouette suggested obliquely in an attempt to sound ambiguous.

"Like what?" Hightower asked, pressing the issue.

"I dunno, alotta stuff." Silhouette tried to be evasive; he had no desire to potentially alienate one of his few friends by putting strange fears in his head. It was bad enough that the general public hated and feared technomancers; he had no desire to foster those fears in his allies – especially Hightower.

"What's the big deal? If there's so many things you can do to shut people up, just tell me a couple." Hightower continued to press the issue.

Silhouette relented. "Fine. Off the top of my head…um, there's foreclosures, repossessions, SIN violations or even revocations, false mega files if they've got a slave job, ah… get their kids expelled from school, you can have 'em arrested or deported, wipe out someone's bank account, maybe destroy their personal records, fake warrants, send 'em million nuyen med bills. You know… life-wrecking type stuff."

Hightower nodded in approval with his eyes widened, brow furrowed, and lower lip jut out. "That was just off the top of your head?"

"Yep." Silhouette tried to present his most innocuous grin. The short list he rattled off was woefully incomplete, but he had no desire to talk about hacking medical devices, crashing cars and planes, driving drones berserk, or any of the other hundreds of things that even a neophyte technomancer could do to attack someone whom they felt threatened by.

"But, isn't most of that shit detectable? If someone suddenly gets a ten million nuyen medical bill, they're gonna complain about it and the hospital's _going_ look into it. They're going to find out that its bullshit."

Silhouette waved the idea off as though it were an insect buzzing around his head; "No way, not when I do it they won't. You don't just slap a bill in there and magically expect it to check-out. You forge test results, visitor logs, room numbers, med usage; eventually you make it so airtight even the guy your doin' it to starts to wonder if they were in the hospital and just don't remember it."

"You're a scary little prick, ya know that?" Hightower said, pointing at Silhouette and grinning. There was no condemnation in his voice though. Instead, it seemed as if there was a definite undercurrent of appreciation in his statement.

Silhouette shook his head, saying, "No, no I'm not. It's not like I'd ever do that to someone for fun or to be petty. But if somebody's putting my life in danger I'm not just going to sit there and take it."

"I hear ya." Hightower's expression suddenly became serious and he asked, "So's that what you're gonna do to Gwen, then?"

Taken off-guard, Silhouette sputtered a little bit before being able to answer. "What? No! I mean, we've worked together for almost two years now, right? It's not like I don't trust her; I do. But…" He sagged in the chair; the stress of the situation sucking all the energy out of him. "But you don't know what it's like, Vince. What they do to us trying to figure out how our brains work. Experimental surgery, drugs, weird implants – all kinds of terrible stuff."

"Okay, fine; let's say it's all true: Gwen knows, she's gonna sell you out, you're gonna go to some lab and they'll experiment on your brain 'til ya die. What're you going to do? You want to kill Gwen? She's got a hardwired 'link; you could probably use that to take her out. Or, I could do it if you want. Other than sitting here shitting yourself, what's your plan?" Hightower was serious, and speaking in a relatively normal register – which typically meant he wanted to make a point.

Silhouette paused for a few seconds to stare at the scratched surface of the table and mull over his answer.

"Nothing…"

"Hmmm? Whazzat? I didn't hear you." Hightower exaggerated his question, striving to drive-home his point.

Silhouette exhaled until he felt nearly deflated, then answered, "Nothing. I said nothing. I'm not going to do anything."

"Okay, there ya go. You trust Gwen and you're not going to use your mystical evil computer powers to make her head explode; so stop fucking grinding on it, alright?!" Silhouette wanted to reach out and strangle him for so drastically oversimplifying the situation, except he knew Hightower was right.

"Listen, you had to expect that…wait, you hear that?" Hightower stood slowly and looked around the apartment with a concerned look on his face.

"Hear what?" Silhouette strained his ears in an attempt to hear what it was that agitated Hightower, but to no avail. Meanwhile, as he sat straining his ears in an attempt to hear whatever it was he should listen for; Hightower slowly opened the cabinet above the sink.

"Listen." Hightower pointed to the door and Silhouette resolutely looked in that direction.

"I _am_ listening. What am I supposed to be hearing?" Silhouette asked, still looking at the door.

"I thought I heard a…" Hightower spoke in a hush as he crept towards the door.

"If you say puddy tat I'm going to reset everything you own to only speak Sperethiel," Silhouette threatened with a forced laugh.

"No! Shut-up and listen!" Hightower cocked his head toward the door. That was when Silhouette noticed that he held the modified Roomsweeper he used as a holdout. "Don't you hear that?"

Silhouette climbed down from his chair and began slowly backing away from the door. He made an effort to keep any panic from creeping into his voice. "Can I talk long enough to tell you no?"

Without warning, the world went silent. The background hum of the matrix disappeared and Silhouette felt all connection to his surroundings sever. Everything was quiet. Somewhere nearby, someone activated a powerful signal jammer – one strong enough to even blot out Silhouette's own personal signal.

"Vince?!" Silhouette heard the panic in his voice as he backed away from the door.

"Check for…oh, fuck me!" Hightower's hand reached for the handle when the door opened inwards. Before he could react, pale lavender mist rolled over him and into the room. Silhouette watched as the huge troll's shoulders hunched; his head drooped, he swayed, and then he slowly collapsed with a meaty thud. Hightower went down without ever firing a shot.

"Vince!"

 **Chapter 20.1**

Razorback sat on the uncomfortable bench next to a middle-aged dwarf in a suit and two human men – one younger than twenty and the other probably well-into his forties. All four of them had been there for some time, each staring blankly at a different two-dimensional screen. Behind each screen were individual booths in which each of the four men's companions cycled through countless outfits. From time-to-time, a sleek, multi-armed service robot would enter the closed-off area to present the occupants with various additional items of clothing.

"How about this one?" The screen in front of Razorback lit-up, showing the contents of the room beyond. His daughter Keisha was inside, dressed in a frilly blue and white summer dress that came down just millimeters below her knees. Looking at her made him feel old. She grew-up so fast that he felt he needed to memorize her features whenever they were able to spend some time together.

She had a perfect blend of her mother's and his skin tone, resulting in a warm mocha color. She also had her mother's face, for which he was endlessly-grateful. Shondra's robust cheekbones, full lips, bright eyes, rounded nose and dimples all looked adorable on Keisha. Unfortunately, she had inherited his build. Already 168 centimeters tall and weighing in at 80 kilograms, the curved musculature of her heritage showed-through the very last of her rapidly-disappearing baby fat. Regrettably for him, some of that musculature also translated into overabundance of certain assets he wished would not attract so much attention from young boys.

"Hellooo, earth to Paul!" The sharp rapping sound of her knocking on the inside of the door brought him back from his brief reverie.

"Sorry, sweetheart; what's up?"

"What do you think about this one?" She did a quick pirouette. The dress swirled up above her knees and her microbraided hair whirled in a halo around her head.

"It's nice." Razorback tried to keep his tone even, despite how shocked he was at the shortness of the dress. It had not looked so small in the display hologram.

"Just nice?" she demanded, leaning in and glaring threateningly into the camera's lens.

"Does it have'ta be, you know…does it have'ta be so short, though?" The dwarf sitting next to Razorback tried to suppress a chortle at his discomfort then groaned as his own daughter appeared in the screen wearing a slinky, goth-inspired dress whose neckline dove down to her navel.

"It's not that short, Dad. Besides, I have nice legs; why shouldn't I show them off?" Kesiha did a little pin-up pose kicking up her heel to flash her calf. "You said it had to be below the knee, and it is."

"Okay, but can't you find something that's a little less revealing, um, up top?" Razorback asked tentatively – and with more pleading in his voice than he originally intended.

"DAD!" she shrieked and crossed her arms across her chest.

"It's just, ya know, you don't need t' advertise."

Keisha grinned wickedly; "Advertise? You mean these?" Placing her arms alongside her breasts caused them to bulge up and forward. She then proceeded to shake her torso back and forth vigorously, causing her assets to jiggle suggestively.

Razorback leapt to his feet and tried to block the dressing room's screen with his body. "Holy Shit! Stop that! What the hell's the matter with you?!"

"I'm almost ten, Dad; I'm not a little girl anymore. You better get used to it!" There was an audible click and the screen went blank. Razorback returned to the bench and hung his head in his hands.

"Is she really only nine?" the dwarf sitting next to him asked sympathetically.

"Yeah," Razorback answered. "Ork kids grow up _really_ fast. Girls especially."

The dwarf slowly shook his head from side to side. "You poor bastard"

"Tell me about it."

Keisha came out of the changing room wearing the new dress. She leaned over and batted her at eyes at Razorback and asked, "Sooo? Can I get it?"

He sighed, looking up at his daughter; "You mother's gonna lose her mind if I let you go home wearin' that."

"Soooo, that's a yes?" She relentlessly attacked her father with the twin weapons of an exaggerated pout and puppy-dog eyes.

Razorback relented. "What'd'you think?"

"I think that means…yes!" she squealed while hopping up and down.

"I can hear her now. Remind me to stop on the way back and pick up a couple'a headache slappers."

"DAD! Be nice. I wish you guys wouldn't fight so much." She punched his shoulder as he stood up. There was enough force behind her swing to make him stumble.

"Sorry. Sorry," he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "You ready to go?"

"We _have_ to go to the Shoe Tree on the third floor, first," Keisha pointed upwards and towards the far end of the Aurora Village, "I just got beeped with a killer sale on heels and they've got some that'll look sooo flashy with _my new dress_!"

"Can't you just have 'em delivered?" Razorback begged. He felt as though last hour he spent in the gigantic mall had stolen a year of his life.

"Nooo! Besides, Dakota, Tanya, and a couple of our friends are there, too." She hooked her elbow around his and walked arm-in-arm out into the mall.

Sensors detected when they left the store and sent the bill for the dress directly to Razorback's commlink. He was at the same time bombarded with a seemingly-endless number of advertisements for the establishment they left and every other store in the mall. His agent program fell behind in spam blocking and virus scanning, so he loaded a second to take some of the load off and divvy up the responsibilities.

"Male friends?" he asked. He tried to keep his tone neutral, as though he were just curious. Though, as soon as the words left his mouth it was obvious that he failed.

"I dunno, maybe. She didn't say." She squeezed his arm a little harder and looked up at him with a giant smile.

"You could ask." He returned her smile, grateful he still had 35 centimeters of height on her from which to look down.

Keisha looked down at her feet then asked, "Would it matter if there were boys?"

"Damn right it would!"

"Then no, there won't be any boys there."

Razorback sighed; "So now we're just lying?"

"No, I'm not lying; I'm wrong. You can't be mad at me for making a teeny-tiny little mistake, can you?" She came at him with the megawatt smile again, this time aided by a fortuitous glint of light off her now fully grown-in tusks. Razorback mentally groaned; he remembered when they were just cute little nubs that barely peeked-out from her lip.

"You'd be surprised…"

"Yay!" She stepped out in front of him, turned around, and poked a finger into his chest; "But you can't go all alpha-male, alright?"

"Since when do I 'go all alpha-male'?" he shrugged his shoulders and looked away, but kept walking forward.

Out the corner of his eye, Razorback noticed five Knight Errant officers looking his direction from across the giant open space in the center of the mall. The middle part of the mall was a massive open-air zone that extended from the first floor all the way to the fifth. It overflowed with all manner of flying drones, maglev arboreal islands and sky bridges that joined the two sides of the mall.

Zooming-in to get a better look, Razorback saw that all five officers were Latino human males. There were odd discrepancies in their appearance that made him nervous. All five wore typical Knight Errant duty belts, but the equipment was different than usual, especially the large combat knife sheathed diagonally across the back. The four that walked a pace behind the fifth each had their head shaved into some variation of a Mohawk, which is not a hairstyle he ever saw a Seattle cop wear. Lastly, the fifth man – who walked slightly separated from the others – had a rosary made of fire-blackened bird talons wrapped around his left hand and forearm.

Razorback was not a mage, but he knew a talisman when he saw one. While it was true that Knight Errant employed wage mages, they never displayed their magical gear in public; it was too valuable. An exposed focus identified a mage and singled him out as a target for theft or outright murder.

"Only every time a cute boy looks at me, is when. Promise you won't embarrass me, okay?" Keisha pushed hard against his chest, snapping his attention back on her.

"Okay, okay. Let's just go." Razorback grabbed her wrist and gently spun her around. He made sure to make the maneuver look as playful as possible.

Instead, she slapped away his hand and followed through with the spin to complete a 360 degree turn, replacing her hand on his sternum. "No! Say it! Say 'I promise I won't embarrass you, Keisha!'"

Razorback grinned, not even bothering to suppress his pride at watching her complete one of the self-defense techniques he taught her. "Fine: 'I promise I won't embarrass you, Keisha'. Happy now?"

"Yes. _Now_ we can go." She returned to walking at his side, though with a smug little smile and a slight skip in her step.

Razorback sighed; "I remember when I was the parent in this relationship, ya know?"

"I know; aren't you glad we've moved past that?"

"Funny."

"I thought so too!"

Razorback looked over at the group as they paced him on the far side of the mall. He ran scenarios through his head of escape, confrontation and elimination, but none of them allowed for foolproof protection of his daughter.

"Sweetheart, why don't you go ahead and I'll meet'cha at the VR kiosk on the fifth floor." Razorback lightly gripped Keisha's shoulder with his left hand.

"What's the matter? You getting tired? I can walk slower if you want!" she taunted while poking him viciously in the ribs.

"Ha-ha," Razorback pointed over to the men watching them from across the divide, "No; see those men over there?"

"The cops?"

"Uh-huh, they're some of the officers we deal with at work all the time, and they're here lookin' for me. I just got an email; there was a break-in at one of our shops, so I'm gonna go talk to them. Okay?" It was one of the many lies he and Shondra cooked-up to use when the realities of his work interposed themselves on their kids' lives.

"Wiz! I'll meet you upstairs, then." Keisha nodded and even waved to the five men who had paced them. One of them sporting a Mohawk waved back.

There was then a very strange moment when Razorback, the man with the claw talisman, and the three other individuals all glared at the guy who waved. It was a tableau of only a few seconds, but it lasted long enough to add an element of surreality to the situation.

"Hey! I love you!" He tried to make it sound casual; like it was just one of the thousands of times he had told her that. The slight frown and furrowing of Keisha's brow, however, showed that he had put a little more emotion behind his expression than he wanted – and that she noticed.

She turned around and stretched up to give him a kiss on the cheek and said, "I love you too, old man!"

As she walked away, Razorback sent Keisha's mother a 911 email telling her that she needed to pick-up their daughter from the mall immediately. He also included information about the few on-line investments he had been able to make and their passwords in case she needed access to the money for the kids. Then, despite how stupid he knew it was; he told her he loved her.

Pointing to one of the bridges that spanned the open-air portion of the mall; Razorback walked calmly to meet the five fake cops in the middle.

 **Chapter 20.2**

"47…48…49…50…1…2…3"

Pangolin watched Mercy work through her relentless program of calisthenics up on the catwalk. In the few days since she relocated to the garage, Pangolin marveled at her routine: wake up, eat, exercise for a couple hours, eat, nap, exercise for a couple more hours, shower, eat, go out, get wasted, stagger back, eat, sleep and repeat. She heard Razorback talk about her lifestyle, but always assumed he was exaggerating to make a point; if anything, he understated his case. Three days of Mercy's regimen would probably put Pangolin in the hospital.

Sitting on a steel drum full of nanoforge feedstock, she watched the center bay door roll up and the largest of her small fleet of tow trucks back into the garage. The door swung open and Pangolin's most experienced driver, Pete, clambered down from the cab. The short, pot-bellied troll ambled over and stood next to her. Wiping his hands on his overalls, he opened the cooler at her feet and helped himself to a handful of the beers chilling inside.

"Everything go okay?" Pangolin asked, more as a conversation starter than out of concern. Pete could more than handle himself in most situations, and it had been a routine service call, so she nothing to worry about. Besides, very few people wanted to be belligerent to a troll who knew how to use a crowbar.

"Uh-huh," he grunted, downing the tiny can in his calloused mitt, "Cubicle lifer got drunk and popped off the 'Guide. Lost his shit and wrapped his Chevy 'round a lamp post. Same old, same old."

"How come you didn't bring it back?" she asked offhandedly.

"Totaled. Guy cracked the block and all the crumples. I sent it to the yard; they're gonna part it out for you." Pete indicated the general direction of the salvage yard with a jerk of his thumb. The Murdock brothers who ran the yard and she had a longstanding relationship – both on and off the books. They would chop anything that came in, and she could buy whatever parts she needed below wholesale. Then they would both submit corroborating claims to the client's insurance company. It was an inelegant system, but nonetheless worked well-enough to keep everyone's accounts flush.

"They give you your percentage?"

"Yep."

"Oh, okay."

Following her gaze upward to the catwalk, he asked, "Is she still goin' at it?"

"Yeah."

"Freakin' woman is startin' to give me a complex, ya know that?" he grumbled.

"Huh?" Pangolin turned to look at Pete, who patted his bulging stomach.

He chuckled; "Last night I caught myself lookin-up gym memberships online." Then, after taking a swallow from a second beer can, he mused rhetorically, "But who the hell has the time?"

"Tell me about it; I haven't looked in a mirror so much since I was fifteen." It was true; since Mercy's arrival, Pangolin had become increasingly self-conscious about her own appearance. She had even briefly considered installing some light workout equipment in one of the less cluttered storage rooms in the basement.

"What I don't get is how she stumbles in here shitfaced at five and then starts that bullshit again at noon like nothin' happened." Pete drained the can, crushed it down to the size of a Ping-Pong ball, and then lobbed it into the recycling grinder. "I dunno where she bought her guts at, but they're top-of-the-line."

Pangolin craned her neck to look up at him; "You want to hear something funny?"

"Yeah, what's that?" he asked, watching Mercy execute hanging sit-ups from the side of the catwalk.

"Except for that arm, her eyes, and a little headware, she's all natural."

He looked down at her in disbelief. "You're shittin' me, right?"

"Nope; no augs, muscle replacements, vat organs – nothing. Not even gene-tweaking," Pangolin replied while shaking her head.

"Jesus Christ, that's depressing," Pete's shoulders slumped and he groaned softly under his breath, "I feel like a bigger slob now than I did walkin' in here. I need to start jogging again."

"You used to jog?" This time it was Pangolin who sounded disbelieving. Pete approached the end of middle age for a troll, and she had never seen him move faster than a determined mosey. The idea of him jogging seemed ridiculous.

"Yep; believe it or not, I'd do two or three kilometers a day, too. Used to feel great."

Legitimately curious, Pangolin asked, "Why'd you stop?"

"Got married and started having crib-goblins," he answered. "Little monsters eat-up anything that even _smells_ like free-time."

"You have four, right?"

Pete nodded in agreement, saying, "Four and one on the way."

"Screw Christmas bonus; you're getting rubbers this year." Pangolin gave the troll a playful backhand slap on the inside of the thigh, causing him to flinch reflexively.

"Like you're one to talk; you have what, eleven brothers and sisters?"

"I'm number eight out of fourteen," Pangolin acknowledged.

He snorted derisively; "That's even worse."

"There's a set of triplets in there if it makes you feel any better."

"Who gives a shit about how I feel; what about your poor mother?" he asked, laughing.

"She loved it…or at least she said she did," Pangolin told him truthfully. "But… I guess who's going to have fourteen kids and not say that? You can't exactly admit after number nine that you don't like kids, right?"

"Brenda says we're gonna keep trying until she gets a girl," Pete mumbled into his beer.

"Why not just go to a clinic and have them 'tweak it?" she enquired.

He bobbed his head in assentation; "That's what I said, but she says that's cheating and when the universe wants us to have a girl, we'll have a girl."

"Why would the universe give a shit about you and your kids?" The idea of continually having children, and the grueling expenses they incurred, seemed ludicrous to her. Modern technology existed for just that reason – to make life easier. Why wait for a fickle universe to possibly never deliver what a doctor could do outpatient.

"Preachin' to the choir," he exclaimed with a raised eyebrows and tightlipped grin. "While she's waiting for divine intervention I gotta figure out how to feed the little monsters."

"I could talk to Mike; he's always lookin' for drivers to help out," Pangolin offered. Her brother Michael was constantly organizing smuggling runs between metropolitan areas – typically tech or guns – but he was open to anything that turned a profit. There was always a dearth of competent drivers who knew how to handle themselves at border crossings. Michael would jump at the opportunity to have Pete work for him; though, he would have to pay through the nose to get access to her best driver.

"Or you could just gimme a raise," he suggested, jovially nudging her with his knee.

"Yeah, so…you want me to call my brother, or not?" Pangolin asked flatly.

"Let me run it by Brenda first," he said dejectedly. "Plus, I might be gettin' a little old to be long-hauling these days."

"Whenever; just let me know."

"Thanks. Okay, I'm outta here. 'Night." Pete handed her the unopened third beer can and tossed the crumpled remains of the second into the grinder. Giving a backhanded wave, he shuffled off toward the open bay door.

"Alright, g'night," Pangolin called after him.

"Hey! You want to grab something to eat?" Pangolin shouted up to Mercy on the catwalk. She had apparently finished with the hanging sit-ups and moved on to hanging pull-ups.

Mercy paused and reoriented herself to look downward in Pangolin's direction – hanging from the handrail by her cyberarm only.

"Can't, I have a date," she grinned wryly. "Got to finish-up then be at the Skellie by eleven."

"Fine, be that way!" Pangolin shouted in feigned rage.

"I can see if she's got a brother or a friend, if you want," Mercy suggested. "It might be fun, and I know you'd like the Skeleton."

"I dunno; may–"

Several muffled gunshots echoed from outside. Pangolin and Mercy both reacted instinctively. Mercy pulled herself up and sprinted toward the cache of weapons she kept on the catwalk; Pangolin mentally opened the four concealed hatches on the garage's roof in preparation for launching the roto-drones concealed there.

It was too late.

Before Mercy covered half the distance between her and her stash, she sagged to her knees and slumped forward; unconscious or dead, Pangolin was unable to tell. Simultaneously, six ' _thoomp'_ sounds preceded the arrival of an equal number of hissing gas canisters that landed at her feet. Before her drones even had time to spin-up their rotors, she was down.

 **Chapter 20.3**

Jester ran his hands under the scalding water for an extended period of time. Not only did he need to get all the blood off, he had to be sure to get any skin or flesh that might have gotten caught in his hands' mechanical crevices. Even on cyberized limbs, an undiscovered shred of meat could still find a way to infect his biological systems if left to rot.

Shaking his hands dry, he looked around the small, one-bedroom shack a third time. Every single feature depicted the life of an impoverished elven refugee family struggling to survive in the Puyallup barrens. Electricity came from an old bio-diesel generator; there was no matrix connection, little furniture and no running water – nothing. In truth, however; once one looked sufficiently-deep enough, all that was a lie. Electricity came from pirated connections to buried cables, though the service was expertly disguised. Pipes for running water and sanitation hid behind multiple layers of secret wall panels. And they camouflaged a satellite link dish as part of the roof. Nothing was as it seemed, including the three elves that lived in the shack.

The three Laèsa had taken much longer to talk than he expected. Dismantling their story required dismantling their bodies, and made quite the mess of the little Puyallup safe house. Nearly everything in the shack got destroyed during their subdual and subsequent interrogation. Eventually, however, they each broke and told him what they knew about the shipments arriving from Tìr Tairngire. He sent the information, as well as video of its extraction, to Aleksander, who at that very moment mobilized the Vory to intercept the cargo.

There had at one time been a ratty, uncomfortable-looking couch obscuring the trapdoor into the tunnels beneath the shack. Climbing back down the ladder made the mostly-healed wound in his hip twinge. The doctor told him it would take some weeks before it was 100 percent again, since the injury took place in what he referred to as a 'mesh' zone. Apparently the bullet passed through an area where his biological muscles and his cybernetic ones were interwoven, making it difficult to mend properly.

Disregarding the yellow damage warning blip on his HUD; Jester walked past the crates filled with deepweed, laès, unidentifiable talesma, zen mushrooms, leäl tabs and countless other contraband items and towards the small room at the end of the corridor.

After grabbing the riot shotgun he left leaning against the wall, he looked through the small window in the door to make sure no one inside slipped their restraints. Once he subdued the three elves, he stripped them bare to make sure they were unable to hide anything treacherous. It was an easy mistake to make, especially in situations where clothing might obscure a small blade or broken binding. Satisfied that all three were still bound with the nyloplastic cords, he pulled open the heavy door and entered the small, three by three meter square room.

Upon seeing him, two of the three elves began to squirm and make garbled panic noises around their gags. Their broken fingers and toes, bruised torsos, missing teeth, electrical burns, swollen eyes, torn ears and shattered noses were all evidence of their prior time in his care. He made an effort to be less harsh with the female of the group, but she turned out to the toughest of the three. In the end she had been the one to take the most damage and was the last to crack.

His instructions were simple and clear: Send a message with closed caskets. Jester picked the first of the elves up by the remainder of his left ear. He tried to wriggle free, but was in no physical condition to wrest himself loose from Jester's cybernetic grip. Lowering his aural gain by ninety percent; he positioned the shotgun's muzzle 30 centimeters behind the elf's head and pulled the trigger. The flechette round tore into the back of the elf's skull and erupted out the front in a spray steel shards. As predicted, the damage was so severe that the entirety of his face turned to mulch in one blast.

Sidestepping the widening puddle of urine forming under the second male elf, Jester repeated the process. The elf's body went slack and the wall got decorated with hundreds of tiny, flesh-covered needles. Tossing the second defaced body on top of the first; he grabbed the remaining elf by her long hair and hefted her into position. She did not squirm, nor whine or weep; she simply glowered at him with a stare so full of hate it was palpable.

"No survivors. Sorry," Jester whispered before adding her to the pile.

Tossing the shotgun in the opposite corner of the room from the bloody pile of evacuating corpses; Jester turned off the light and closed the door as he exited. With his audio input turned so low, he was unable to hear the gas canisters fired down from above the ladder, but he saw the trap door close behind them. He was down before reaching even the first rung.

 **Chapter 20.4**

Yukihime swished the cold water around in her mouth and spat the last of the toothpaste into the sink. Holding her hair back with one hand, she leaned over and twisted her neck to take a large gulp directly from the faucet. Wiping her mouth with the small hand towel hanging above the mirror; she flicked off the lights in the combination bathroom/kitchen and took the two steps necessary to enter the living room.

Opening the tiny apartment's sole closet, she grabbed the folded shikibuton and tossed it on the floor. The kakebuton and fluffy western pillows followed suit after she retrieved them from the top shelf with the aid of a small footstool. Folding in the legs of the chabudai table and sliding it against the wall opened-up the middle of the floor and allowed her to lay out the traditional Japanese futon set.

She grabbed her commlink, electrode net, the tube of moisturizing fixative and the chip with the bright red dot on it from the same fold-out table that held her trideo terminal. Snuggling in under the massive Seahawks comforter, Yukihime spread a generous helping of the clear jelly over the electrode net's four contact disks. Affixing them to her head – two to the forehead and one on each temple – caused a tiny light on her commlink to blink green. Once the light quit blinking and maintained a solid green color she slotted the chip into the commlink's sim module.

Using the electrode net as a gateway to virtual reality, Yukihime opened the icon that resembled the Japanese Imperial flag. For a brief moment her senses swirled as the simsense program loaded into her brain. Then everything became real.

She stood inside a small island pagoda surrounded by a wide river. Dozens of arching wooden bridges connected many similar islands; some with pagodas like the one she waited in, others with benches and tables and some were just islands of grass and flowers. Inhaling deeply filled her lungs with the water's clean scent. The river moved lazily – perfect for the golden koi that bobbed to the surface begging for handouts. Butterflies clung to cattails while dragonflies chased mosquitos over the water. The wind was crisp as it cut through the rolling hills of manicured lawns. A wicker picnic basket tumbled into the river, causing a flock of Japanese red-crowned cranes to explode into flight accompanied by the cheers and giggles of a crowd of uniformed school children.

Wearing a black yukata embroidered with violet chrysanthemum flowers and thick-soled Japanese sandals, she slowly crossed the wooden bridge. Beneath the bridge's wide slats swam more koi trying to keep pace in case she decided to drop a few crumbs. Pond turtles congregated on stones to absorb the sun's warmth even in the chill breeze. Everywhere, couples and families set out blankets on which to recline and enjoy the afternoon. Children ran freely, chasing butterflies or playing made-up games amongst themselves. Young couples simply enjoyed each other's company and basked in the sun.

Leisurely walking off the island paths and onto the rolling hills, she headed towards the tree line. Passing through gardens on gravel trails and hedgerows of scarlet roses brought her slowly forward, but in a rambling, lackadaisical fashion. She passed exquisite bonsai topiary and ponds filled with imported floating lotus and elegant water lilies. Bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds crowded the air.

As she approached the sakura trees, another burst of wind lifted her hem and scattered thousands of fuchsia petals into the sky. Beneath the canopy of the cherry blossoms, light filtered into wonderful shades of pinks and purples. More bees hummed innocuously through the air while birds, squirrels, and even a troupe of macaques caused petals to lightly drift down in graceful cascades of color. She saw the blanket she wanted to find and headed towards it, though in a measured pace. The petals underfoot formed a slick, slightly spongy floor that released a subtle aroma with every step.

The man sitting on the blanket stood when he saw her approach. He was Japanese; tall and impeccably dressed in a black haori and grey hakama. She could not see his face due in-part to a coy sunbeam that always seemed to shimmer across his features. He beckoned to her and she felt a trill of excitement stir in her chest. She increased her pace, but only slightly, so as to enhance the anticipation. The man reached out to embrace her as she reached the edge of the blanket and…*ERROR* *ERROR* *ERROR* *PLEASE RECONNECT INTERFACE DEVICE* *ERROR* *ERROR* *ERROR* *BIOFEEDBACK LINK TERMINATED* *SIMULATION TERMINATED*

 **Chapter 20.6**

The enormous eagle spirit ripped into the water elemental, shredding its nebulous limbs with its talons. Calypso tried to summon another, but exhaustion prevented her from gathering the mana. Already her vision swam and her heartbeat was erratic; drawing on much more mana would likely start to inflict serious, irrevocable damage to her body.

She abandoned the elemental to its incipient destruction and dashed around the corner. The maze of shipping crates and towering equipment provided what should have been limitless hiding spots, but the mage tracked her effortlessly. Every time she stopped to catch her breath he appeared from around a corner or out from behind something – calm, unfazed, and unrelenting.

It had been more than a quarter hour since they interrupted her run on Harbor Island. She signed-on to the low-key dataplant job for ¥3000, expecting to do nothing more than a little astral reconnaissance and possibly some light healing. Instead, she watched four rookie shadowrunnners die while she fled into the maze of alleys and shipping containers that crisscrossed the docks.

The hacker died first, killed by a single shot from out of the darkness. The young elf girl, who called herself Trixmiss, knelt next to the door hardlinking her cyberdeck to the security scanner. Without warning, her body jerked violently and then crumpled to the concrete – one side of her head splattered on the wall. Before they understood the situation; Hardbody, the team's gunslinger, took a bullet through the heart. He slumped to the ground less than a meter from Trixmiss.

Calypso and the remaining two shadowrunners bolted for safety. Their driver stashed his old Bulldog in an open shipping crate to avoid periodic drone flyovers. They were halfway to its location before he started screaming about his matrix connection getting cut. His alarm was short-lived, however; a bullet smashed into the side of his skull a second later. Making a ninety degree turn, she abandoned the route to the van and ran headlong towards the shelter of the towering stacks of shipping crates.

The last remaining member of their team called after her as she ran. His cries were rife with terror and it gnawed at her to abandon him, but her sense of self-preservation outweighed her altruism. She met the young face known as Guapo less than eighteen hours ago; as much as she would like to help him, he was not worth dying over.

Another gunshot from the unknown assailant ended his cries for help.

Without looking back, Calypso dashed into the darkened labyrinth of towering steel freight containers.

Now, leaning her back against the container's cold metal, she englutted huge, rasping lungful's of air. She felt her elemental discorporate, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her eyes still refused to focus while blood dripped slowly from her nose and ears. She could not stop her hands from shaking. Waves of nausea came and went on a rapid cycle. The aftereffects of pushing her body past its inherent magical limits took their toll.

Rooting through the satchel she always carried on jobs, Calypso retrieved a pair of dermal patches and a sturdy test-tube stoppered with a rubberized, synthetic cork. Holding the test-tube between her teeth, she fumbled with the first patch's plastic backing. It seemed as though it took forever, but she steadied her hands long enough to get a corner started to unpeel the patch and slap the stimulant onto her left wrist. As her skin absorbed the gelatinized amphetamine, she wrenched open the second and affixed the glucose patch to her right wrist. In mere seconds she started to feel the effects. The amphetamines helped push back the exhaustion and disorientation while the glucose fed her starving muscles.

Using her teeth, she ripped the cork off the test-tube and then poured the contents into her mouth. Suspended within the sweet, syrupy liquid floated a single willow frond. With her mouth still full, she bit down on the piece of willow and ground it between her molars. Immediately thereafter, a surge of magic rippled throughout her body, healing her wounds and rejuvenating her mind. She swallowed the mouthful of fluid and the willow frond in one gulp and tossed the empty test-tube away.

Sprinting through the maze of steel and machinery, Calypso ran in what she believed to be a roughly seaward direction. If she were able to reach the ocean she would have a fighting chance. Her pursuer showed no affinity for water, using only mana spells and beast summonings against her – at least so far. With the aid of the dermal patches and the alchemical potion she ingested, Calypso already felt her connection to the spirit world strengthening. If she could only make it to the water she could escape beneath the waves.

She rounded the corner of one of countless indistinguishable towers of steel crates. In the darkness it was impossible to make out the face of the man blocking her path, but the brilliant flash of light was undoubtedly the muzzle flare of a shotgun.

Struck in the chest, Calypso staggered backward, reeling and wind-milling until she slammed into one of the shipping containers. The pain was intense for a moment, but then faded. A chill numbness spread outward from her chest and permeated her limbs as she slowly slid into a sitting position. It was still too dark to see the man's face when he put the second round into her.


End file.
